Those Who Harp
by Slide
Summary: Set 25 years before Baldur's Gate, Baron Ployer has started trading slaves in Athkatla... and it's up to Harpers Jaheira, Khalid, Belgrade and Gorion to stop him... *Completed!*
1. Chapter 1: Darkest Nights

**Chapter 1: Darkest Nights**

The Athkatlan docks were rarely the setting for the happiest of occasions. As a place where a murder could happen at least once a night and nobody would bat an eyelid, it was hardly somewhere the Amnish Guard decided to poke its nose into too often – after all, they valued their noses, and the way Aran Linvail ran the area they'd be lucky to keep them if they interfered with the Shadowmaster's businesses. Nobody did.

Well, almost nobody. Despite the fact that the Shadow Thieves clamped down hard on any independent operators within Athkatla, there were still some individuals foolish enough – or resourceful enough – to challenge the guild. These were people who ran operations in the utmost secrecy, out of fear of Linvail rather than fear of the Amnish Guard.

One such operation was currently being run by people who rather suited the criteria needed to go more than a nanosecond when running an independent Athkatlan criminal business. Down in the darkest depths of the docks, in the most hidden, secretive piers which were all but impossible to access and thus barely used, a boat was settling in to dock.

It wasn't a particularly large boat, for a great ship would not fit in this tiny pier in a darkened corner of the district, yet it was still suitably large enough to draw attention to itself if something went awry. Which is why the resourceful people in charge had made every effort to ensure this didn't happen.

The boat, the _Wolf Fang_, was little more than a ferry from her mother ship, which was anchored off-shore, just beyond reach of the Athkatlan authorities. Sailing under neutral flags and doing nothing any more aggressive than loitering, the _Seawolf _had stubbornly resisted all efforts made by Amnish battleships to encourage her to move along.

The _Wolf Fang_'s temporary captain and first mate on board the _Seawolf_ was first to bound down the gangplank the moment his craft settled against the pier. His pace was light and bouncy as he clearly ignored the ominous creaks the plank below his feet gave out at every step.

Two men were awaiting him on the pier. The first one, a massive brute of a man who probably had more than a little Orc blood in him, seemed quite content to gaze at the ship with a rather distant air, his eyes glazing over as the boring wait for the _Fang_'s arrival penetrated and melted his slow brain a little bit.

The second man was far more alert. Small and wiry, with a dark cloak and hood thrown over him which would have made him look inconspicuous if it wasn't made from a fabric so fine that no simple commoner could afford it, he watched the _Fang_'s skipper disembark jovially through his hard steel-grey eyes.

Ramman Thorstein of the _Seawolf _stepped onto the semi-solid land of the pier and grinned cheerfully at the waiting party. "Greetings, mates!" he declared, a little too cheerfully and stereotypically for the second man's liking. He adjusted his garish sash and shifted his hat so it sat on his head at a rakish angle. "I suppose you're awaiting our little package?"

Baron Geoffrey Ployer resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he pushed the hood back from his head to show his full head of dark, if greying, hair and rather worn face. Thorstein knew him to be only about forty, though he looked considerably older. "You're late," he declared at last, and the attempt to project some malice into the lyrical, educated tones of his voice failed rather magnificently.

"The tides and wind were against us," Ramman Thorstein replied jauntily. These men weren't sailors. They wouldn't know that Captain Bates had wanted to sample their wares for a few extra moments before handing them over. It wasn't as if the goods had been spoiled, or anything. "Do you have the money?"

Ployer turned to the Orcish man, who lifted a large sack and passed it to the jovial Thorstein. The sailor took it with a brief nod of cheerful thanks, before opening it up and glancing inside.

"I trust everything is to your liking," the baron continued lightly, still attempting to intimidate the far taller and broader man. "As I trust everything will be to _mine_, otherwise I shall be taking that money back, Mister Thorstein."

Ramman raised an eyebrow as he brushed his light brown hair back from where it dangled over his eyes in a way he thought gave him a suitably roguish air before responding. "Hey, hey, hey," he responded soothingly, raising his hands in a gesture of submission. "We wouldn't be wanting to lose your patronage, just as you wouldn't be wanting to lose our supplies. We're all friends here, milord. Neither of us have been dissatisfied with the other on past ventures."

"Yes, but, as I'm sure you're aware, my demands this time are considerably higher than they have been in the past," Ployer pointed out, shrugging. "Everything must be absolutely perfect. I can't afford for things to go wrong."

"And everything is fine. They're all tucked in back there, sitting pretty, just waiting to be handed over into your loving hands," Thorstein assured him, gesturing briefly back at the _Fang_. "Do you have the carriages?"

Ployer turned to look back at the long stairs along the side of one of the old, run-down buildings of the Docks District which led to the main road. "At the top. My men are waiting up there – they shall help supervise the disembarking. Fortunately, there are not as many items as before, otherwise we would be here until dawn with your late arrival." The attempt to project a slight amount of irritation was not missed by Thorstein, but the comparative master of subtle intimidation ignored the baron's attempts to daunt him.

He turned to face the sailor straight on as his Orcish manservant hefted a large battleaxe in a way which suggested that nowriggling on Thorstein's part would allow him to say 'no' to the next suggestion. "I would like to see the wares before we partake in the exchange," Ployer explained mildly.

* *

For the past few weeks, all dozen of the captured humans had been stuck in a small hold which had gradually filled up with refuse, both from themselves and the inedible portions of their daily rations. There had been no escape from their situation, from their captors, from each other. Within hours, nobody had been able to notice the smell any more. It simply became as much a part of their life as the background noise of the waves crashing against the side of the ship.

Which is why the short move from the hold of the _Seawolf _to the _Wolf's Fang _had seemed like an absolute blessing. Some of them were seeing the sky for the first time in months, the feel of fresh air on the face and feeling clean for the first time in what seemed like an age as their captors threw buckets of salt water over them to remove the accumulated grime invigorating them. Yet, none of them had thought that this was the end of their torment. They had already begun to accept their fate; they merely welcomed the brief respite from the hell they were in.

The hold of the _Fang _was considerably smaller than that of the _Seawolf_, and they had been exceedingly cramped on the bigger ship. Now there was barely space for them to move. The trip to the docks had taken all of a half-hour, during which time nobody had said a word. Words had long ceased having any relevance.

When the door to the hold had swung open and the big man, the biggest brute of them all after his captain, had stepped in, followed by a small, mousy-looking individual they didn't recognise, it was quite clear things were going to change; that their torture had only just begun.

Ployer looked at the selection of pitiful-looking humans before him, giving each of them the careful, appraising inspection of the expert. Some were dark-skinned, some pale; some male, some female; some younger, some older; some big and muscular, some small and wiry. But they all had one thing in common: the spark of the eye and tilt of the chin that made them of a disposition which was absolutely perfect for what he needed them for. He needed survivors. He needed fighters.

He didn't say that, however. "This is the best you could find?" the baron demanded of Thorstein, injecting absolute disdain into his voice, a façade the sharp sailor picked up on instantly. "They don't look like much to me."

"Ah, that's just a bit of malnutrition," Thorstein replied, not willing to be goaded into playing Ployer's games. "Feed them well and they'll be just what you need for the pits. We searched far and wide for this dozen, picking only the best of the bunches. The others got sold off along the way." He cocked an eyebrow at the irksome aristocrat. "Why'd you only want humans, anyway?"

Ployer smiled a thin, rather disturbing smile, before turning to his Orcish manservant. "Explain, please, Warner," he asked lightly, continuing with his inspection of the goods as if Thorstein was not worthy of another second of his time.

Warner gave a brief grunt of acknowledgement as he turned to Thorstein. The two men exchanged a pained look as both glanced in the baron's direction, before the half-orc offered the explanation he'd been told too many times. "Them nobles don't really want to see little dwarves and skinny elves running around fighting each other. They want to see humans fighting humans – more _engaging_, Lord Ployer says."

The baron waved a finger approvingly in his manservant's direction. "Very good, Warner, very good." He straightened up, finished in his appraisal, and turned back to Thorstein. "I am suitably impressed. Give Captain Bates my compliments, and aid me in disembarking this rabble, if you would be so kind."

The respite from whip and squalor had been brief, as all dozen of the slaves knew, and as they were driven through the darkest nights of Athkatla to unknown destinations, every single one of them knew that this was not the end of their troubles – merely the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2: Of Balance

**Chapter 2: Of Balance**

Arteris Galvarey paced casually in the grand hall of the Harper's headquarters within Athkatla. The tall, broad shouldered young man picked his path carefully, stepping only in the illuminated parts of the entrance hall, the light of massive torches on the roof and walls dancing off his armour in a way that made him look almost ethereal. It made him look powerful. He wanted to seem almost celestial, for it was only in appearance that he could rival the man he was due to meet.

Herald Vedus of Athkatla had ordered him to meet and brief the sage Gorion Greenmantle when he arrived. Galvarey had always been intimidated by the great man, who was one of the most powerful mages of the Harpers, barring Blackstaff and such. Although Gorion was not, technically, a full member of the Harpers, but rather the closest thing to a sub-contractor they could get, he held more prestige and power than Galvarey himself did.

Understandably, the young Harper hated this. He was on his way up, working to ingratiate himself with Herald Vedus until he could gain a post of power of his own. He was a Herald's right-hand man; that in itself should offer some kind of cache. And he was still young. There was still that ladder to climb.

The great door of the entrance swung open with a loud creak. Three times the height of a normal man and about twice as broad, it seemed ready to proclaim the arrival of a grand group of victorious adventurers, rather than the silent coming of a single, humble man.

Gorion Greenmantle drew his emerald robes closer around him as he closed the door. Though it was pouring down with rain outside, a thunderstorm threatening sleeping Athkatla, the mage seemed bone-dry, and hardly hindered by the climate.

The sage looked around confidently. For as long as Galvarey had known him, the wizard had seemed eternally aged. He didn't know just how many years he had seen, but his hair had remained a close-cropped steel-grey for all the time Arteris could remember him.

Finally, Greenmantle's eyes settled on Galvarey, and the mage stepped forwards slowly. Although there was nothing threatening about his pace, the Harper felt mildly intimidated as Gorion walked carefully and confidently towards him, smooth and silky as a cat.

The sage eventually outstretched a hand towards the younger man. "Arteris. It is good to see you in good health," he greeted Galvarey, a small smile tugging at his otherwise utterly emotionless face. There was no twinkle in the eyes as he regarded the Harper.

Galvarey resisted the urge to squirm as he shook Gorion's hand. "A pleasure to receive you, milord Greenmantle," he responded humbly, bobbing his head up and down in a rather lackey-ish manner. Then he remembered just who he was, what he was doing, and that someone with his designs would not be intimidated by the mage and he straightened up. "The Herald asked that I brief you the moment you arrived. We should not waste more time."

Gorion nodded, his green eyes twinkling at last as he noticed Galvarey's attempt to remain in control of the situation. "Yes, Vedus can be a little impatient," he commented as the younger Harper turned and veritably scurried towards one of the side rooms off the great hall, all the while trying to stand up straight and look imposing. Greenmantle smiled; the ambitious youth amused him.

The room Galvarey had chosen was small and cosy, each wall lined with bookshelves filled with various volumes on history, culture and mythology. The only gaps were for the door and the fireplace, where dying embers cast a slight, reddish glow on the otherwise dark room.

Galvarey moved to the fireplace and picked up a log lying beside it. Gesturing absently for Gorion to take a seat, he hefted the bellows and gently goaded the fire back to life. Soon the previously dark and cold room was warming up, and most of the shadows were being chased away to the darkest corners of the bookshelves.

Gorion took the large, overstuffed armchair in front of the heavy oaken desk that sat in the centre of the room, made a little steeple with his hands, and peered at the young Harper inquisitively. As Galvarey started to pace in front of the fire, he had the horrible impression that the mage already knew what was going on.

"Slavery in Athkatla has always been a most active business," Arteris Galvarey started falteringly, clasping his hands behind his back – not a mean feat when wearing the chain mail he sported. "But in recent years, mostly thanks to our endeavours, it has slackened off considerably. The Shadow Thieves have withdrawn in their advances in that direction, limiting themselves to their usual activities, and thus it is an enterprise usually only undertaken by independent parties."

"And the Shadow Thieves most certainly do not like that," Gorion mused levelly, stroking his silvery beard with a thoughtful air. "Thus any successful slavers in the city would have to be the most resourceful of individuals."

"Precisely," Galvarey responded, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He had rehearsed this briefing carefully, wanting to impress the sage with his knowledge. He was starting to think, however, that Greenmantle already know more than he did. "As such, there are only a handful of slavers now active in Athkatla, and we have tabs on most of them. They're small-time operators, and present little threat to anyone."

"Other than the slaves they keep," Gorion pointed out mildly.

Again, Galvarey resisted the urge to glare at him. "Uh, yes. As it is, they're being taken down one by one, but subtly enough that they don't realise we're keeping tabs on all of them." He paused, looking straight at the mage. "Unfortunately, there's one party that has just emerged which aren't so easy to deal with." He pulled a scroll from somewhere inside his armour and slid it across the desk towards Gorion.

The mage took and unrolled it wordlessly. "Ah, the infamous Baron Ployer strikes again," he commented lightly, raising an eyebrow. "The man gets around, I must say. I believed we had seen the last of this particular Calimshite."

"Not a chance," Galvarey replied, shaking his head and offering what he hoped was a knowing glance. "He's as slippery as an eel, this fellow." The Harper wilted under Gorion's inquisitive glance, and he bowed his head a little miserably. "I've read the file."

Greenmantle raised his eyebrow even higher, but passed no comment. "I take it you wish for me to investigate, and bring down his organisation if at all possible." It wasn't a question. "I believe that is within my capabilities, gods willing. Who do I have working with me?"

Galvarey glanced down at a second sheet. "Darial's party," he answered brightly, smiling hopefully. "Belgrade should tag along, and two newer members as well. A suitably highly skilled group."

"Darial…" Gorion frowned thoughtfully. "Since when was she given a party to run? Last I heard, she was working under Aisath."

"Things have changed. Aisath has retired from the field," Arteris Galvarey responded lightly, shrugging in a non-committal way. "The Herald thought she quite capable of running a group herself. You have no problem?"

"With her? No." Greenmantle shook his head firmly. "It simply seems I have been away long enough to be out of date on the recent Harper politics. And I am a little concerned to have Belgrade and Darial working together."

Galvarey looked blankly at him. "They seem to get on perfectly well. I have heard no cases of any trouble between the two of them," the desktop-working Harper replied mildly, a little nonplussed.

"You obviously haven't been in the field with the two of them together," Gorion muttered under his breath, before standing up and looking straight at Galvarey. "I shall meet them when they arrive tomorrow," he said simply, slipping the scroll into the recesses of his emerald robes.

"They should be here in the late afternoon. Darial is travelling with Khalid, one of the two newer members, a half-elven native of Calimport. He may have connections which will help in finding Ployer. Belgrade is with the second new member, Jaheira, a druid whom I, personally, have reservations about yet Belgrade was insistent should join the group." Galvarey looked a little miffed, as if Belgrade's opinion couldn't possibly be as valuable as his own.

Gorion gave him a thoughtful look. "I shall reserve judgement for when I meet the girl," he replied levelly. "If Belgrade's found something of worth in her, then I shall trust his opinion enough to give her a chance. Good day, Arteris," he finished formally, before turning and striding out of the room.

Galvarey glared at the closed door once Greenmantle was gone. "Belgrade has found something of worth in her," he muttered bitterly, "because he's _bedding _the girl…" 


	3. Chapter 3: Wilderness

**Chapter 3: Wilderness**

Whilst the urban grandness of Athkatla did indeed spread across an impressive fraction of Amn, the southern land was hardly overwhelmed by cities and towns. Within two miles past the city gates a traveller could find themselves in the deepest undergrowth, trudging along a small dirt path in the middle of the densest forest.

Some fifteen miles out, on the outskirts of one of these forests, a pair of travellers had settled down to camp for the night, a final stop before making the final leg to Athkatla the following morning.

The last of the sun's rays had long stopped penetrating the filter of the tree branches, and the only illumination offered was that of the small yet vicious campfire that had been set up, over which a small pot of unidentifiable stew was merrily bubbling.

The slender dark-haired woman stirring occasionally at the dinner lifted the metal ladle, blew lightly on the doubtlessly boiling hot food, before tentatively tasting it. Her companion, a man of light build and slightly pointy ears that displayed his elven heritage watched her dubiously.

After a second's brief coughing, the woman firmly spat the offending mouthful onto the floor before frantically lunging across their small campsite towards her travel pack and struggling with the water flask to unscrew the lid.

Her half-elven companion watched the display with a slight smile of nervous amusement lingering on his lips. "A l-little hot, is it then, D-Darial?" he asked inquisitively, his slight stammer impeding his speech a little.

Darial the bard gave him a mock-glower. "Don't try sarcasm or dry wit, Khalid. It doesn't suit you," she retorted wryly, shaking her head before she gulped down yet more cooling water.

Khalid shrugged, taking his own bowl and rather bravely serving himself a generous portion of the stew. "I rarely have t-trouble getting people to laugh at m-me," he replied ruefully, stirring the stew and letting free an almost overwhelming amount of steam.

 The bard grimaced slightly as she sat back down on the opposite side of the fire, helping herself to her own share from the small pot. "Sorry," she replied, shaking her head a little. "I just hate it when people criticise my food. I'm a good cook, and don't forget it," she continued, waggling a finger at him cheerfully.

Khalid smiled nervously. Darial had so far been unsuccessful in getting the perpetually anxious warrior to laugh outright, though he never seemed to treat any of her jokes with anything other than humour. This was quite a feat; even she acknowledged that some of her quips were truly terrible.

His problem, the bard considered, was that he was so insecure he didn't dare do anything other than his utmost to ingratiate himself with others. As people had informed her when she'd met up with him in Tethyr, this sometimes got on peoples' nerves; fortunately the laid-back bard found him little other than endearing. Though not the most confident of people, Khalid was always polite, well-mannered and rather cheerful. Many of Darial's former companions had been some of the dreariest Harpers imaginable.

"I wouldn't d-dare," Khalid muttered, shaking his head. The bard gave him a brief, sharp look before hiding it with a smirk. Good; she'd already started to loosen him up since they'd joined forces a mere week ago. "At what t-time should we be r-reaching Athkatla t-tomorrow?" he asked out loud.

Darial paused for a moment, considering. "Depends on what time we set off, and whether or not you insist we pause every ten minutes for a drink," she replied teasingly. "But with a little luck, by lunchtime. We'll be feasting with the Herald within twenty-four hours."

Khalid's eyebrows shot up. "T-the Herald?" he repeated, his voice going up a mildly panicked pitch.

The bard paused. Her warrior companion was barely twenty; young by human standards and still an infant by elven. Though his combined genetics tended to wreak havoc on each other, contradicting wildly on matters such as age, Khalid's quiet nature sometimes made him seem older than he appeared. It rendered him rather easy to tease.

As did his stutter and the fact that he was slightly jumpy. In fact, on the whole, he was an easy target. A far too easy target, which led Darial to suspect he would have experience in shrugging off any taunt offered by someone less scrupulous by herself.

So instead of teasing him, however good-naturedly, she decided to give him a break and shook her head, her dark eyes twinkling merrily. "Nah, I doubt it," Darial conceded. "We'll probably never even _see _Vedus whilst we're there. According to what I've been told, we'll be working under Gorion Greenmantle, the sage."

Khalid's brows knitted together as he frowned with thought. "Greenmantle," he repeated softly and considerately in an absent tone which suggested he was trying to remember something.

"Yep. Gorion Greenmantle," Darial repeated. "Great man, great mage. Whatever we're up to, he'll make sure we don't do anything too stupid. Great man." She nodded sagely. "Whatever we're up to."

* *

Darial and Khalid would have been kicking themselves had they known that the Dancing Dragon Inn lay a mere five miles north of their current location. Whilst the trek there would have been mildly challenging, it would have then relieved them of the troubles presented by cooking and the undeniable chill of the Amnish nights as all the heat accumulated from the blisteringly hot days fled from the ground.

They would also have had a chance to meet some of their future companions, although neither of them seemed particularly inclined to go about and meet new people that night… for they were perfectly content with each others' company.

In a small yet comfortably furnished room, the first rays of sunlight sneaked through the tiny gap in the curtain, strategically aimed so as to hit one of the two people sleeping in the big bed directly in the eyes.

He stirred slightly, shifting out of the light, but the damage was already done; he'd been woken up. With a groan of dissatisfaction, the Harper Belgrade sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to shake off the fatigue that had not yet been dismissed by sunlight.

Scratching at the stubble that graced his chin, the human turned to glance at his sleeping partner, who had clearly not been roused by the arrival of dawn. On a brief whim of amused envy, he lightly poked her bare shoulder. "Jaheira? Wilt thou be rousing thyself any time within the next few seasons?"

The young druid swatted at his hand none-too firmly, rolling over to present her back to him as she slid further underneath the covers. "Belgrade," she started, her voice a quiet mumble of dissatisfaction, "I am attempting to sleep. You deprived me of that pleasure last night, so have the decency to permit me to have another hour or so."

Belgrade raised an eyebrow, blinking. "But –"

"No."

Jaheira's tone was firm, and threatened possible intense pain if he was to push the matter. Raising his hands in submission, Belgrade shifted away and slid out of the bed, wincing with anticipation as he brought a bare foot down on the coarse wooden floor which promised splinters.

He fished quickly for the comfortable dressing gown that was one of the few luxuries of the slightly natty room, temporarily slipping his feet into his light boots as he trooped across the room towards the mirror on the wall. Though he was almost silent in his movements, he knew he was still making a noise, and intentionally – the sooner Jaheira woke up, the sooner they could be moving on. Odd how a druid who would get him up before dawn when they camped in the wild would demand a lie-in once sleeping in a normal bed.

_Then again, last night was hardly the most relaxing of nights, was it? _Belgrade grinned to himself as he retrieved his shaving equipment and proceeded to remove his face of the offending stubble that had accumulated overnight.

Though he could not quite attend to it at the moment, his sandy-blonde hair was getting just a little too long for his liking. Though not particularly vain, Belgrade took great pains in keeping himself neat and tidy. He'd have to attend to that later.

As he scraped the blade along his damp face, wincing as a brief slip sliced a little – fortunately not deep enough to draw blood – he glanced at the reflection of the sleeping Jaheira.

He had brought her into the Harpers himself after their rather dramatic meeting in Tethyr. Intrigued by the druid's fire, her passion for life and dedication to fighting what she believed in, it had not taken long before their relationship had pushed from being friends to being lovers. Most of his superiors frowned on it, but Belgrade could easily push their disapproval aside. He did the work they needed; what more could they ask of him?

To be on time at his assignment, he supposed, frowning a little. Then he looked at Jaheira again, and shook his head. He valued his neck more than the opinion of his superiors, anyway… 


	4. Chapter 4: Drinking Hole

**Chapter 4: Drinking Hole**

"I'm n-not so sure we should be sitting in a tavern when we c-could be heading over to the Harper Headquarters," Khalid commented unhappily as he and Darial sat in the Crooked Crane, a rather ancient and dilapidated tavern just within the city gates. He sipped his ale then grimaced; there was clearly more water than alcohol in the mixture.

"We won't be here for long," the bard replied absent-mindedly, drinking lightly from a glass filled with a golden, sparkling liquid. "Gorion won't be expecting us for another few hours."

The half-elf frowned slightly, clearly a little nervous to challenge his direct superior on a matter that he was not necessarily fully informed about. "Then… why are we h-here?" he asked tentatively.

"Waiting for someone," Darial responded, not looking at him as she scanned the tavern from their seat at the bar. "I'd planned to meet him here all along." Finally, she gave the unsure warrior a sideways glance. "He's an old friend."

"I s-see," Khalid murmured, cradling the tankard in his hands as he stared at the swirling mixture he had been foolish enough to order. This was his first assignment with the Harpers, and he wasn't particularly sure why he'd been selected. From all accounts, Darial was a seasoned veteran, even if she was only a few years older than himself. He had no idea what he was expected to contribute to what sounded like a highly important mission.

Truth be told, he was also rather intimidated by the bard. He knew that there were still other members of the party they were to meet up with, and that he probably had something of an advantage, having travelled already with the leader, but her forcefully outgoing and perpetually chirpy nature was such a direct contrast to his own that it was slightly overwhelming. He rather hoped that his other companions would be a little more sedate then his leader.

He eyed the other drinkers of the tavern dubiously. Though Calimshan hardly heralded the greatest of drinking-holes, he was clearly softer than these hard-core Athkatlan drunkards – in that he was used to getting a clean glass. Khalid was fully aware that there were finer establishments than the Crooked Crane within the walls, and was thus very suspicious of Darial's reasons for dragging him in here.

Behind him, the tavern door swung open with an ear-piercing squeak that demanded oil, and the half-elf winced. As he took a gulp of his ale in the hope that the little alcohol within might help dull the pain, he barely registered Darial's face lighting up.

"Ah, here he is!" she exclaimed cheerfully, half-rising and waving in the direction of the door. As Khalid was facing the wall, he had his back to the newcomer, and by the time he'd managed to swallow his ale and turn around, the new arrival had already reached the table.

He looked up to see a sandy-haired man with a roguish grin he probably thought made him seem ruggedly-handsome; Khalid didn't think himself the best judge of such matters.

Belgrade was probably about two inches shorter than the half-elf, though it was difficult to discern whilst the latter was still seated. Despite this, he was slightly broader around the shoulders, which wasn't a particularly difficult task, and obviously in possession of a confidence Khalid was inherently lacking.

"Darial!" the human greeted the bard, pumping her hand warmly as he pulled up a nearby chair. "You must be the only person who could persuade me to enter a place such as this; by Tymora, the beer seems to have things _living _in it, and I do not refer to yeast!"

The dark-haired woman shrugged, shifting her chair around to offer Belgrade more space. "There's no place easier to get to than this tavern once you've hit Athkatla. I thought it'd be a good meeting spot," she exclaimed lightly. Khalid did not miss the glance the two exchanged as they spoke.

"Of course," Belgrade murmured, shaking his head. "You are accustomed to sordid establishments such as this, though I'd suspect you'd be murdered on the spot if you attempted to interrupt the drinking with a spot of singing…"

Khalid blanked them out as they started to exchange mildly friendly gibes, feeling a little put out. He studied the new arrival intently, taking in his practical yet fine clothing, neat leather armour and classing him as one of those rogues that occasionally graced the Harpers ranks.

So intend was he in studying Belgrade that he failed to notice the shadow that fell over him, and was only shifted out of his reverie by the pointed clearing of a throat. He glanced up to see Belgrade's half-elven companion, who was currently giving him a rather haughty look.

"Are you going to move so I can sit down, or shall I be forced to stand as you stare at your drink?" Jaheira asked as disdainfully as she could manage, rather ignoring Khalid's shocked expression.

Blushing right to the tips of his ears, the warrior mumbled something that could have been apologetic under his breath before shifting his chair around to leave Jaheira space for her to pull up her own seat to the now rather crowded table.

"S-sorry," he stammered, not making eye contact. "I w-was j-just… t-thinking…" To hide his embarrassment, he took another deep gulp of his watered-down ale and grimaced as the dregs from the bottom of the tankard found themselves in his mouth.

"Evidently," Jaheira answered, but her voice had now lost something of its former venom. The day had not gone well so far; she was irritated at Belgrade for making this unnecessary diversion when they would have done best to report to the Harper Headquarters as soon as possible.

Her eyes wandered over to the quiet, tanned red-haired man she had just been more than slightly abrupt with. The chain mail he wore had to be excruciatingly hot considering the temperatures both inside and out, though he seemed to be bearing it well, even if he did seem a little distracted.

Darial finally managed to extract herself from recounting the trip from Tethyr long enough to realise what she was supposed to be doing. "Oh! Yes! Introductions!" The bard set down her glass of sparkling wine and looked at Khalid. "This is Belgrade, an old friend of mine," she exclaimed, clapping the aforementioned human on the shoulder. "He's the sneakiest bugger you'll ever meet, but he has a heart of gold." She paused, giving a mildly melodramatic frown. "If he hasn't sold it yet."

Belgrade winked at her before shaking Khalid's hand. "I am presuming that you would be Khalid, the party's new warrior," he offered brightly. "I have heard… certain things… about you. Working together shall be a pleasure."

_Certain things? How? _Khalid wondered idly. He knew that Belgrade and Darial, as moderately respected members of the Harpers, would have access to information low-grade members such as himself would never be given, but he always wondered just _how much_ was on file.

Instead of replying, he merely nodded respectfully before turning to Belgrade's companion. "And y-you are?" he asked lightly, trying to keep his expression open and friendly, rather than in its perpetually nervous state.

_So the stammer is a speech impediment rather than something brought about by nerves, _Jaheira observed silently as she briefly studied the other half-elf. "My name is Jaheira," she replied simply, not giving away anything in her expression. "I'm from a druid grove in Tethyr." She turned to Darial before Khalid could reply. "And I would presume that you are our party's leader, Darial?"

The bard paused, looking considerate at this assumption. "Pretty much right," she acceded, nodding slightly. "But this particular mission we're heading to, whatever it is, smatters of the higher-ups. The man in charge is going to be someone a little more influential than little old me." She grinned brightly, receiving little more than a cool and inquisitive glance from the druid.

"It is indeed Gorion, then?" Belgrade asked mildly, placing a hand on Jaheira's shoulder in a way that was not missed by either Khalid or Darial. The latter raised an eyebrow, but neither passed comment.

"Absolutely," she said instead, nodding. A quick glance out the window of the Crooked Crane confirmed that the sun was high in the sky. "I would suggest we get moving to go and meet him, then. Greenmantle can get a little bit… peeved if we yank him around." She flashed a grin at the other three. "You don't want to peeve a powerful spellcaster like him."


	5. Chapter 5: Down Under

**Chapter 5: Down Under**

Baron Ployer looked around the converted cellars of his grand house in Athkatla's Government District with an air of something approaching glee. Although he was not new to the slaving business, it always filled him with something of a thrill when he embarked on a new venture with fresh blood, so to speak.

The slaves he had bought from the _Seawolf _would most certainly require a little training – unlike most slavers in Athkatla, Ployer knew that the key to an entertaining fight was not simply allowing them to be slaughtered by trolls. The audience wanted human against human with blade and bone, and would hardly be entertained by a pair of gritty men rolling around brutishly. They could go and start a bar-room brawl if they wanted to see that kind of fight. No, Ployer specialised in bringing unusual entertainment of a more specialised kind to the upper classes.

The cellars of his mansion had changed from being a place to store wine to being a place to train men and women on how to kill each other. Rows upon rows of cells greeted him in the massive cellar, and as he walked down the corridor they presented, he could feel the eyes of the slaves on him. He could feel the hate, the anger, the desire for vengeance.

Ployer smiled a little as he walked past the cells, the depth of emotion washing over him. It was good; good that they felt like this. When the slaves were so pent-up, so furious and tense, it generally released itself in the arena. The greatest pit fighters of all were the ones with the most anger.

At the end of the dozen or so cages, Ployer had had his employees construct an arena not too dissimilar to the pits of the Copper Coronet, the top spot for showing off his fighters. The trainers, most of them retired Amnish guards, were going through the moves with some of the more receptive slaves, showing them the ropes. Some had skills already.

In a larger cage to the side of the arena, a pair of slaves fought viciously. One was small and wiry, using his smaller size to dodge the powerful blows of his opponent, who was a huge man wielding a rather large and dangerous-looking axe.

Although the first man was darting around frantically, giving the odd fierce jab with his short sword, it was the larger fighter who seemed tired, his dark skin shining with a coat of sweat as he swung futilely at his opponent.

The fight seemed grossly mismatched. The giant wore a ragged set of chainmail, and his axe was almost as big as the smaller man, who had little more than his tiny blade and rags of clothing held together by leather straps. Yet somehow, the undersized fighter was holding his own.

Ployer meandered over towards where Warner stood by the cell door, avidly watching the fight. In addition to being a personal servant and bodyguard, the half-orc was also a highly skilled trainer and warrior himself.

"Warner," the baron started, his voice low and mildly inquisitive. "May I just ask why you have a giant against a midget? The whole point of this enterprise is that the fights aren't grossly uneven."

Warner turned to his employer, his expression as blank as usual. Ployer didn't realise his servant was sharper than he let on, however, for it suited the half-orc to appear confounded by anything complicated. "Sorry, sir. I just think the crowds will be entertained when they see the little guy beat the big guy."

Ployer frowned, and was about to press further when there was a bellow of victory from inside the cage. The larger, dark-skinned fighter had flipped his opponent onto his back, and was about to bring his axe down in a blow that would split his skull.

Panic filled the baron. _But… we don't want to have them killed off yet! They must be trained, must die in the pits! Otherwise, they're worth absolutely nothing! _Yet, before he could call out, something very unexpected happened.

At the last second, the tiny fighter rolled out of the way, allowing the axe to deflect noisily off the cobbled floor. Before a second blow could arrive, however, the small slave's hands moved speedily, and he seemed to be mumbling something under his breath.

As Ployer watched, incredulous, five small red arcane bolt shot from the small fighter's fingers and hit his opponent full in the face. The giant bellowed in pain as the spellcaster leapt to his feet and, with frightening speed, whirled his blade around to smash him in the face with the hilt, knocking him into unconsciousness.

The small warrior dropped his sword to the floor and turned to the door of the cell as Ployer started to clap slowly. "Very impressive… _very _impressive," the baron applauded him. "Clever to keep your magic hidden until the end, as a secret resource."

"Yes… it is," the other man said, approaching the baron. His none-too-deep voice had a slightly eastern lilt to it, the accent reminding Ployer of a Thayvian he had once met… but not quite.

"You're from Rashemen, aren't you?" the aristocrat asked lightly, taking the keys from Warner to unlock the cell door. He had nothing to fear from the slave – the man was clearly sensible enough to realise that any attempted attack, arcane or physical, would bring instant death from the guards.

"I am. Travelling slavers captured me, then I was sold to the pirates who brought me to you," the small man explained, shrugging. Despite his relatively quiet and courteous tone, there was a fire in his eyes Ployer found a little unnerving. As an escape, he glanced over at where Warner was dragging the giant away.

"What is your name, you who are skilled in both blades and magic?" the baron asked him at last, still not making eye contact, seemingly supervising his manservant in the disposal of the unconscious slave.

The small man started to pace slowly, and Ployer was oddly reminded of a panther he'd once seen at a zoo when he was a boy. Trapped in its cage, it had done nothing but weave back and forth, seemingly glaring at any visitor who approached. At the tender age of six, the young Ployer had been absolutely terrified by the panther. He repressed something of a shiver. He had to remain implacable. He needed to be merciless.

"Aergoth Xanthus," was the eventual reply in that same foreign accent with the quiet and courteous tone. Though there was not a hint of sarcasm to be found anywhere, and Xanthus' face was impassive, Ployer had the distinct feeling he was being mocked. Blue-green eyes flared under a mop of blonde hair as he finally regained eye contact with the slave.

"And what did you do in Rashemen? Something quite particular if you can wield a sword like that as well as cast magic," the baron said, noticing that Warner locked the cell door shut behind him, leaving the slave locked in the larger cave. He really needed to pay more attention to the workings of his own business – if he had, he'd have noticed this man sooner.

"Nothing special. I was a farmer," Aergoth answered, shrugging slightly. Ployer slowly realised that the slave hadn't shown any emotion so far, not even at the height of the battle. Yet his eyes were very much alive, and flaring quite dangerously. "I learnt how to fight with the slavers. A captured mage taught me a little magic." He shrugged again. "I don't have enough innate ability to become an archmage or such, but I can use a spell in times of need."

Ployer thought quickly. His first fight with his new selection was at the Copper Coronet tomorrow. He'd have to make a good impression on that rat Skorrid if he wanted to be able to continue to bring his fighters there.

The baron turned to Warner, who was now supervising some of the training of the unskilled slaves down in the massive pit. "Put this man on the itinerary for tomorrow!" he called down to the manservant.

The half-orc looked up brutishly. "What place, boss – uh, milord?" he asked, intentionally slipping in the obligatory blunder required of someone with his supposedly limited mental strength.

"Last, of course. I want him fighting the Coronet's best," Ployer snapped impatiently. "That fool Skorrid will have no choice but to accept my fighters as regular appearances at his tavern once the audience see this man."

Warner gave a toothy smile. "It's already done boss. I put him on when you told me to take care of the i-tin-er-ary…"

The baron gave his servant a bright yet thoroughly patronising smile. "You, Warner, are a very clever man," he declared, in a tone a stupid half-orc wouldn't be able to understand was sarcastic. Warner, being a not-so-stupid half-orc, got the message perfectly, and questioned Ployer's parentage under his breath as his employee strode off.

Xanthus had been listening to the exchange in silence, and only as Ployer left did he allow himself to slide to the floor of his large cell – this was technically the sparring cage, so he'd probably have to be up for another session in a few minutes – with a groan of fatigue, grimacing.

The slave massaged his aching limbs, closing his eyes. Using even a little magic took a bit out of him – he didn't have the natural ability wizards had of being able to cope with that kind of arcane power. He wished he hadn't had to use it, but some of Ployer's gladiators who had been there a long time had become a little psychotic – he was fully aware that his skill would have been split in two had he not resorted to his magic.

He grimaced, leaning against the wall. Ployer had sucked all of the humanity out of those slaves, but this son of Rashemen would not allow himself to be destroyed in that way. He would not become a monster, an empty shell.

But as he looked at himself, Aergoth Xanthus realised the humble farmer he had once been died a long, long time before he had come under the ownership of Baron Geoffrey Ployer.


	6. Chapter 6: A Simple Plan

**Chapter 6: A Simple Plan**

Gorion sat silently in the room of the Harper Headquarters where Galvarey had briefed him the day before. Supposedly, those he would be working with today were due to turn up very soon, but the wizard held no high hopes. Darial and Belgrade would drag the two new members to the closest tavern, and probably emerge hours later, too inebriated to care for what he had to say.

Once they knew, of course, they would hate themselves for seeming so dispassionate. As it was, they probably supposed it would be a simple routine mission; investigate this or that threat, then go back on their way. They would not suspect how important this quest was to be.

Which is why he was immensely surprised when the door swung open and the four swaggered in. At least, Darial and Belgrade swaggered. The half-elven druid with a perpetual glare merely strode purposefully, and the nervous armoured man rather crept, seemingly a little worried by the casual attitude of his fellows.

But there was none of this informality in their tone as Darial turned to the mage, giving him a brief but respectful nod of the head. "Master Gorion. Sorry for being a bit on the late side, but we came as soon as possible."

Khalid gave her an incredulous look. "You s-stopped at the tavern for a drink!" he exclaimed disbelievingly before he could stop himself. "I'd hardly c-call that coming as soon as p-possible!"

Instead of the expressions of betrayal he anticipated as soon as he realised just what he'd said, a sheepish look of fear crossed Darial and Belgrade's faces. The bard turned to Gorion guiltily. "It was a… preliminary get-together."

The mage smiled tightly. "As I had anticipated your arrival in six hours time, all of you too intoxicated to move, this is a rather welcome surprise. You are forgiven." He nodded in Khalid's direction. "Though I appreciate your honesty."

The half-elf merely looked as mortified as his two companions, and Gorion shook his head briefly. "I am sure we have more to discuss than this," he continued, standing up. "Do any of you know why you are here?" Silence greeted him. "As it should be," the mage continued, nodding curtly and stroking his short, silvery beard.

"Three days ago, the sailing ship _Seawolf _anchored off the Amnish coast, remaining there for six hours. At the time, we didn't know why; she didn't respond to the arrival of the Athkatlan forces, and then left for no apparent reason, having done, we thought, nothing during her time there.

"As we later discovered, however, she had released one of her smaller accompanying ships, the _Wolf's Fang_, which made its way to the Athkatlan docks undetected. Initially, we believed she was carrying contraband for Shadow Thief smugglers, and thus paid minimal attention. However…" Gorion's voice trailed off as he passed a scroll to each of his four Harper comrades. "…We now have reason to believe that she was bringing a shipment of slaves to the shore."

A look of distaste crossed Belgrade's face as the rogue leant back in his chair, frowning. "I presume that we are dealing with yet more unfortunate individuals doomed to grace the pits of establishments such as the Copper Coronet?" he asked dubiously.

"Indeed, but the Copper Coronet is not our target," Gorion explained. "The slaves were bought by Baron Geoffrey Ployer, whom the Harpers have had their eye on for a considerable length of time; this is merely the first chance we have had pin anything precise on him. He is the man we are to bring down."

Darial nodded, a lock of dark hair falling over her face. "I'd be a fool if I didn't assume you already had a plan, Master Gorion," she said, her tone light but her eyes hard and unwavering. Khalid and Jaheira, both of whom had only seen the bard in a happy-go-lucky mood, were a little surprised by this change.

The mage smiled slightly. "Thank you for your faith in me, Darial," he mused, nodding. "Indeed I do. Whilst we shall also be bringing the slave trading of the _Seawolf _to an end, Ployer is our first objective. He has scheduled his slaves to fight at the Copper Coronet tomorrow, which should attract great crowds amongst the nobles that enjoy such things. The four of you will be in that crowd."

Jaheira pursed her lips thoughtfully, not wanting particularly to butt in as the more experienced Harper explained their mission. But there was still a question… "How much information do we have on Ployer?"

Gorion paused, then winced briefly. "Precious little, I am afraid. That is something we seek to rectify. One of our few pieces of information is the fact that the baron's resources have recently started to run low – his legitimate business, trading with Calimshan, has recently taken a turn for the worse. We know that he needs money."

Belgrade frowned. "We are planning to buy ourselves the information we require?" he asked suspiciously.

Gorion shrugged. "In a way." He looked at the rogue full on, his piercing green eyes evaluating the younger man until he shifted uncomfortably, and possibly a little guiltily. "You are one of the best infiltrators amongst the Harpers. We shall require your skill." The mage sat down slowly. " Your job will be to present yourself as a possible patron of the baron. The Herald has agreed to give you the necessary funding to make your role convincing. Invest in Ployer's business, and thus burrow your way into his organisation. With the money you offer, _you _will have a limited hold over _him_."

Khalid leant forward as Belgrade digested this piece of moderately welcome information. "And the r-rest of us?" he asked lightly.

Gorion looked evenly at the nervous half-elf. "You will all be evaluating the Copper Coronet. The duty is softer for you – present yourselves as foppish louts wanting to partake in the pleasurable services the tavern offers, become a regular sight at the inn, and gather as much information as possible. When we make a move against Ployer, it will more likely be at the Coronet – striking at the lion's den is a rather unnecessary risk when we can catch him off his own turf."

Belgrade snorted good-naturedly. "Ah, as I launch myself into the perilous pit of vipers, my comrades are able to enjoy the pleasures of the most infamous establishment of exotic entertainment in Amn – courtesy of the Harpers, no less?"

Darial grinned, then slowly sobered and looked at Gorion. "He's going to need backup," she insisted, shaking her head. "I'd recommend that he has one of us with him, so he's not doing this alone. Khalid as a business partner, or myself as his wife, or such."

Gorion considered this briefly, turning his evaluating look on Khalid. The half-elf gazed nervously back, and the mage shook his head. "Darial, you shall accompany him," he decided at last.

Belgrade took a deep, nervous breath. _Why in the Nine Hells did you have to offer that suggestion, Darial? _He wondered silently. _You know that I am more than capable of fending for myself in such a situation. _He glanced sideways at the other members of his group. The bard looked merely thoughtful, though there was a glint in her eye he wasn't too keen on. Jaheira had merely raised an eyebrow and was looking similarly contemplative, which worried him immensely, and Khalid… Khalid was looking dejected, rejected and trying to hide it at the same time. _I am unable to find fault with Gorion, however – this man _may _be competent, but he is an unknown factor who has not yet proven his worth._

Jaheira leant forwards, and there was an edge to her voice which suggested she was displeased with the decision but had chosen not to argue with it. This was worse than he thought. "And where will you be as we embark on this dangerous task? I believed you were to be leading our party."

_No, Jaheira, no… of all the possible challenges you could extend – and, without a doubt, win – you do not want to be disdainful of Gorion. He is not a petty man, but I assure you, a most powerful man whom you will most certainly want on your side. _Belgrade let out a quiet, unhappy whimper that was missed by all present.

Gorion gave her a regretful smile. "Unfortunately, Jaheira, I have other matters the Herald wishes me to attend to. I shall not be out of sight entirely, but, as I am sure you are aware, this party is Darial's." The mage stood. "Who I would like a word with in private right now. Would the rest of you leave us in peace?"

He watched the other three filter out of the room one by one, each displaying their own separate emotion. Belgrade seemed more nervous than the mage had ever seen him; Jaheira full of a silent, controlled irritation; and Khalid appeared rather dejected and mournful.

Belgrade closed the door behind him as the half-elven warrior stepped out, and he clapped the man on the shoulder. "I would not worry yourself, friend. Do not think that Gorion has no faith in you – merely remember that he has no idea of your skills and abilities. It would be foolish to assign you to infiltration work if you were more of a sword-swinger, for example." _Or whatever in the hells your skills actually _are_. I am unsure I can see one as nervous as him being a competent fighter._

But before Khalid could reply with either thanks or, as he wanted, something sharper to halt Belgrade's patronising, the rogue was gone, catching up with Jaheira. The fighter watched them from a short distance as they all started down the corridor towards the main hall of the Harper headquarters.

Though he could not hear their words, he watched as Jaheira's body language switched from irritation, to anger, then relaxed as Belgrade offered something to make her laugh. At least her worries were easily assuaged.

Khalid sighed as he looked around the great hall. So far, his first assignment with the Harpers was not going as smoothly as he had hoped or anticipated. He would need to do everything in his power to prove his competence to Gorion, and prove to Belgrade that he did not need to be patronised.


	7. Chapter 7: Rest, Relaxation, Reflection

**Chapter 7: Rest, Relaxation, Reflection**

The Sea's Bounty, Jaheira reflected, was a far less… seedy establishment than the Crooked Crane. Whilst the Docks were frequented by all manner of low-life scum such as pirates and Shadow Thieves, these scum also brought a considerable amount of money to the tavern, so it was far more pleasant than most other inns of Athkatla.

She was still simmering from the briefing with Gorion, though it did her well to not let anyone know. Belgrade, the eloquent bastard that he was, had been quite capable of cutting down her fury when he'd caught up with her outside the room. He was, as always, quick with a word to calm her worries and make her laugh. That was one of the reasons she… was… _fond _of him.

And she wouldn't dwell on irrational fear. For this _was_ irrational – Belgrade and Darial were old friends, in Silvanus' name! They were both seasoned Harpers and thus better suited for the role Gorion had given them. The fact that annoying, irrational, ridiculous jealousy tugged at her was something she would just have to live with.

It didn't mean she'd be happy whilst living with it. No, something in Jaheira's gut told her that something was up, and whether it was _natural _possessive instinct kicking in or a real worry, she couldn't tell.

Right then, the four of them were gathered around a small table in the tavern. They had been there about three hours now, and so the other three were well on the way to becoming inebriated. Even the nervous Khalid had loosened up after a few drinks, and was slurring rather than stuttering by now.

Jaheira watched them, amused, from her position next to Belgrade. The rogue had placed an arm a little too casually – and heavily, for he had helped himself to a considerable amount of mead – around her shoulder, a public gesture she usually wouldn't stand for. At the back of her mind, however, she knew that the fact it openly displayed their relationship in front of Darial was doubtless the only reason she supported it.

_Stop it, in Silvanus' name! You're supposed to be calm, rational, in _control. _They're professionals; just because they're going to be playing at being a couple – and hardly particularly openly, because they'll be a couple on a business venture – doesn't mean he's going to run off with her or anything._

The druid resisted the urge to grimace. There were times she hated her emotions, and now she had to keep them under wraps; because they were stupid. Very stupid. And she had to remain perfectly calm, lest she became mistaken for a silly, irrational girl.

Fortunately, the display in front of her made it easier to appear relaxed. Khalid was remaining coherent and upright only by the strength of the arm he was resting his chin on, and as Darial attempted to drag him into a drinking ditty, he kept slumping onto the table until she poked him back into consciousness.

"Pay attention!" the bard declared mock-sharply, rapping the warrior on the head with a metal spoon. Her erratic gestures and slurred speech made her level of inebriation quite evident. "We haven't even got past the first verse yet. Now…" Darial straightened up in a pose that was supposed to be serious before lurching into song, disastrously off-key.

"_You might like spirits, and you might like wine,  
Whiskey, mead, brandy or ale,  
But there is one drink that is so fine,  
That leaves you hearty and leaves you hale_

_I talk, of course, of that nectar of gods,  
That drink so valued and dear,  
Which you out of depression it prods,  
And goes by the fine name of beer… _Hey!"__

The 'hey' was directed at Khalid as the half-elven warrior slumped back onto the table with a snore, this time firmly asleep. Another rap on the head from the spoon was ignored, and Khalid continued to sleep.

Darial shook her head, grinning a little moronically. "How much did he have to drink?" she asked, then giggled in a way that sent Jaheira's nerves off. "Poor fellow can't take his booze… can't sing either."

Belgrade, revealing himself to be a little more sober than the druid had thought, shook his head. "You have also consumed quite enough, Darial," he assured her, leaning forwards and sliding the tankard away from the weakly protesting bard. "Mayhaps we should get you to your room?"

It would attract too much attention for the party to stay at the Harper Headquarters, and could potentially endanger its secrecy, so the Herald was funding their temporary rooms at the Sea's Bounty. In a day's time, they would most likely be slumbering in the Copper Coronet.

Darial shook her head erratically, leaning back in the chair and crossing her arms over her chest in a most childish way. "No. Nope. 'm fine here," she insisted, grinning emphatically.

Jaheira sighed, shaking her head. The bard had suddenly started to give her a headache. "Perhaps we should leave her here," she groaned, rubbing her temples. "I'm sure someone will drag her to her room."

Belgrade grinned, removing his arm from around her shoulder. "Not necessary, my love. I have a method of getting Darial into bed that has never failed before." Looking at the bard, he missed the druid's dubious and suspicious expression. "I shall wager that you are unable to stand, Darial," he said to the party's leader firmly.

The bard looked indignantly back. "What're you talking 'bout, Belgrade? You know I can stand. Easy!" The human stood slowly yet firmly, and although she swayed a little, she was upright and balanced.

The rogue's smile broadened, and his eyes lit up a little. "Ah, but are you capable of making your way back to your room in this inn?" he asked, though he kept his voice light and knowing.

The bard's indignant expression spread. "'course I can!" she declared. "You know me… always make it home…" She gave Belgrade's falsely dubious look intense scrutiny. "Want me to prove it?"

As Darial strode off unsteadily, hopefully to end up in her room and to then stay there, Jaheira gave Belgrade a brief, mildly impressed look, ignoring Khalid as he remained with his head in a slowly-expanding puddle of mead on the table. "You never cease to amaze me."

 The rogue gave her a devilish grin. "I try my best." He winked as he slid an arm around her shoulder, and was gratified when she didn't resist. He wasn't quite as drunk as she evidently thought he was – mead didn't go to his head quite like spirits did, and the Sea's Bounty could rival the Crooked Crane in watering down. Though, from the states of Darial and Khalid, he would guess that ale was not given the same treatment. "This is preferable to carrying her to her room once she has passed out."

"Hmm." Jaheira glanced across the table and nodded in the direction of Khalid's slumbering form. "You may need to carry him up there later," she pointed out, resting her head on Belgrade's shoulder, a warm feeling inside dispelling some of the worry in the pit of her stomach.

Belgrade chuckled dryly. "I had not anticipated that one such as him would be able to consume so much alcohol when faces with a drinker like Darial," he mused, shaking his head thoughtfully. "I suppose he has proven himself on one spot of turf, at least."

The druid looked at him briefly. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked lightly.

He shrugged. "I am sure that he has been assigned to this group for a reason, yet I am unable to find one. I'm not judging yet… it's too early to judge… just I am simply waiting for him to show us where his skills lie."

Jaheira considered this for a moment, frowning a little. "It seems as if you _are _already judging," she muttered. Why was she being so sharp with him? It had to have something to do with irrational worries lashing out, or the like…

He raised a hand defensively. "No, I… am expressing myself badly." Belgrade grimaced, then sighed. "Let us wait and see. The Harpers will have assigned him for a reason. The fact that he managed to survive a drinking competition with Darial proves he has hidden talents."

Jaheira chuckled dryly, the need to leap on his every point passing. Then she sobered slowly as the words sank in a little. "You seem to know Darial quite well," she commented quietly.

Belgrade shrugged again. "We have long been friends," he explained lightly. There was a brief silence as he looked at her. "Never anything beyond," the rogue continued in an assuring manner. Noticing her mildly unconvinced expression, he turned and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "I promise."

Even as she shifted to return the embrace, which would be little more than a prelude to going to bed, Jaheira still managed to notice Khalid briefly popping an eye open, watching them discreetly, before returning to what seemed to be a drunken slumber. 


	8. Chapter 8: Root of All Evil

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Chapter 8: Root of All Evil

Aergoth Xanthus tied the simple leather gauntlets around his wrist as he regarded the massive roomful of various types of weapons and armour that every pit-fighter and gladiator could take to use in their fights. Xanthus would have liked to be able to take advantage of some of the rusty half-plates or the sturdy suits of chainmail that hung on the racks along the walls, but he was too small in stature for the amour – and besides, wearing it would deny him his greatest advantage in the pits.

He had been fighting as a gladiator for many, many years – almost more than he could count, and his life as a free man seemed to be little more than a dream. He had wanted nothing more from his existence than to live as a simple farmer on his family's farm, and eke out his days in peace. Raise a family and grow crops. A humble request for life, but he had been denied even that.

The slavers had been on a brutal rampage, seeming more like marauding bandits than organised captors of men. They had targeted the farm, for it was far away from any particular centre of life, and had swept in, setting the house and barns alight to drive the family out. His mother and father had been slain, for they were old and of no use to the slavers, and so he, his sister, and his sister's husband had been taken. Xanthus' brother-in-law had always been a physically weak individual, and had been abandoned in the slavers' first stop to be used as petty bait for the beasts in the fighting ring. His sister had become withdrawn, not speaking to anyone, and before Xanthus could reach out to help her she had been sold in Calimshan to a noble family. As she was presumably to act as little more than a servant rather than be pushed towards the brutal fate he anticipated awaited him, he was quite thankful, although held no delusions of seeing her again.

Xanthus had then been on his own, quickly learning that you could not make friends when you were a pit-fighter, for they would die speedily, sometimes by your own blade if you were forced into the ring with them. The one person he had become even remotely close to in his imprisonment was the northern mage who had taught him a little magic, and he had been cut down after only a month, his chromatic orbs unable to save him from the sweep of a battleaxe.

And so Xanthus was alone, alive only by his skills and determination. Although there was a part of him, the quiet, humble farmer who had wanted nothing but a peaceful life, who begged him to stop staying alive and end his torment, Xanthus knew he had to keep fighting. For if he kept fighting, he would stay alive, and every day he lived he drew closer to freedom. Then, when he was free, he could pursue the new goal that gave him the fire to stay living each day – vengeance.

But one day at a time. He had been placed at the forefront of Ployer's pit fighters, and would be the most prestigious gladiator, winning the most respect if he won. That could lead to certain favours – he had seen it before with past captors – which he was sure he could exploit. He knew he'd never be granted his freedom, not when he had breath in him to keep winning gold, and so his liberation would have to be of his own means… but being Ployer's best and brightest would bring him a little closer to that step.

All he had to do was to keep winning and then maybe, just maybe, he could make it. All he had to do was to win today, then he was off.

Xanthus tightened the straps on the gauntlets. Whilst he knew they would be no use against a blade struck with any force, they could aid in deflection and could be quite useful in absorbing the bite of a beast's jaws, if it came to that. He had to be ready.

His blue-green eyes keenly studied the weapons rack, evaluating the blades expertly. Some had seen too many fights, and would break under any strain; others were unbalanced. Ployer would not offer his pit-fighters any weapons of any quality, for that would cost money. The fact that it would give his gladiators something of an advantage was irrelevant to the man – why, even if he bought a single blade the fighters could pass on after each round it would be better!

Eventually, Xanthus' eyes settled upon a hefty sword hidden behind a rack of axes, and he drew it out. Visibly a hand-and-a-half blade, it was finely balanced and seemed to be surprisingly sharp. Although he was unused to fighting with a sword of this size and weight, it was clearly a quality weapon that had somehow been dumped with the pile of rusty metal. Whilst a bastard sword was heavy, and could impede his speed – his main advantage in a fight – he had the strength to cope with it, and by its very nature it suited him, for it was a particularly versatile blade.

"This shall do," he mumbled under his breath, running a finger along the keen edge of the sword. "This shall do very nicely." Casting spells could be difficult whilst carrying this, but that was a problem that could be easily overcome.

As he was the last of Ployer's slaves to be fighting today at the Copper Coronet, there was nobody else in the armoury, save Warner who loitered around the door, keeping a watchful eye. The moment Xanthus was, in the half-orc's eyes, fully kitted up, he stepped forwards and placed a heavy hand on the gladiator's shoulder.

"It's your turn. Survive, win, and you just might not get fed slop tonight." Warner smiled a toothy grin which displayed all of his dental misfortunes and gave Xanthus an excellent whiff of his rotting meat-scented breath.

Before he knew what was happening, he was propelled through the door, physically dragged along a collection of corridors, then thrown at the bottom of a small flight of stairs that doubtless led to the arena, sore and beaten even before the fight had begun, struggling for breath.

Xanthus looked up at Warner, gripping his bastard sword firmly in a two-handed grip, and took a deep breath. "Who am I fighting?" he asked, nerves making his Rashemen accent so thick he was almost incomprehensible.

Warner shrugged as the doors leading to the pit swung open creakily. "Don't ask me; I'm just the doorman. One of the Coronet's own, I believe. Presumably the champion… Ployer's got high hopes for you. Now _go_!"

With the crack of Warner's whip ringing in his ears, Xanthus automatically propelled himself up the stairs, his mind racing through the limited number of spells he could use. Burning hands could be quite useful if he wanted to gain an early advantage, chromatic orb for a tough fight where he needed to even the odds, or the reliable magic missile for a tight situation…

He was not disappointed by what he saw once in the pit. Whilst the Coronet boasted one of the biggest arenas he had ever fought in, it was much the same as what he had seen before. The small amount of sand on the pit floor, and, stretching all around him, the stands of the audience.

And before him his opponent. The usual fare of a champion pit-fighter; massive, fully armoured, wearing one of those hideous helmets designed to inspire fear, and carrying a truly awesome flail that could turn Xanthus into a smear against the wall if he let it.

__

Now, flails… you can be good with them, because once they start their swing they can't change direction, and if you're fast enough, you can be out of the way. But with this big a flail, you need to make sure you never get hit. You need to be lucky all the time. He needs to be lucky just once.

Xanthus tightened his jaw as he stepped forwards, nodding a curt nod at the Coronet's champion. _But Tymora has hardly been on my side so far, has she? I'd much rather rely on skill than her favour, with my record_.

Ployer, in the most luxurious stand, watched Xanthus anxiously. So far, his new batch of slaves had done quite well – won some, lost some, and whilst it was a little bit better than usual it wasn't quite the rejuvenation of his glorious gladiators he had anticipated. Still, that fool Skorrid was mildly impressed, which was good enough to keep the Calimshite in the game for a while longer. And now had come the fighter who could make or break this…

Skorrid laughed out loud at the sight of Xanthus, then turned to Ployer with a broad grin. Skorrid, owner of the Copper Coronet and Master of the Pits, was a small, rat-like man with a shaved head and a distinct lack of any obvious redeeming features. But he was a fast talker, a skilled manipulator, and happened to run this side of Athkatla's underworld. "Damn, Geoffrey, I know you said he was a little guy, but you didn't say he was a midget! The Hammer will _destroy _him."

Ployer seethed quietly. _The Hammer. What an unoriginal name. I suppose somebody with the limited mental capacity both he and his employer have makes that rather predictable, but still_… "Don't call me Geoffrey," the baron hissed dangerously, narrowing his eyes at Skorrid. "And just wait and see. This boy is golden. He'll make my fortune," he continued in a whisper.

Indeed, Xanthus looked quite humorous opposite the massive Hammer. Whilst Xanthus was not, by normal stands, that small an individual, when he was constantly faced with giants of the pits he seemed so insignificant it was quite appalling. But Ployer had decided, for once, to place some fate in one of his possessions. Xanthus was skilled and a novelty; that could be worth the world in the pits.

And Ployer needed the world. His trading business was going downhill, which didn't usually affect his underworld economics, but at this moment he had been relying on the Calimshan bases to supply him with funds. The _Seawolf_'s delivery of slaves had not come cheap, and until they started earning him some money he was rather reliant upon legitimate sources of income. That took time, and a slump in the south's economics was proving a little disastrous. A win today would not solve anything, either, merely place him on the road to more wins. He needed a quick solution.

Then the bell rang once to signify the beginning of the fight, and as a roar went up from the crowd Ployer felt himself get swept away in the adrenaline of the pits, the rush he felt every time one of _his _slaves was fighting rising, and he forgot mundane matters such as gold and wealth.

Unknown to him, not ten metres away stood a man and a woman who would come to him as the salvation he sought, but silently bearing an end to his tyranny and greed. And he would welcome them with outstretched hands; them and their kin.


	9. Chapter 9: Deal with the Devil

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Chapter 9: Deal with the Devil

Belgrade had watched the fights at the Copper Coronet from the viewers' stand with barely disguised revulsion, wincing at every blow, battling to keep his lunch at every gory death. Whilst the seasoned Harper was no stranger to such hardships or such viciousness, to see it in such circumstances, between two people who were fighting for no cause other than the entertainment and gold of others, churned his stomach.

Darial sighed a little as she caught the hints of expression on his face, threatening to betray his emotions and their cover. "We're here for entertainment. Try to not wear the expression you favour whenever I force you to sit through a song of my own composition," she whispered lightly to him, and he smiled wanly. "Look a little… more cheerful."

Belgrade whimpered slightly, then shook his head. He was, as was necessary, dressed in all the finery of a wealthy Amnish merchant, and it was beginning to itch. After growing up in the streets of Luskan, being asked to enjoy the sort of luxury he was faced with here tasted sweet from the spoils, yet bitter from the blood that tainted it. "I shall tolerate this. No more, no less, and only as a means to an end. The end happens to be bringing this sort of practice to its downfall." He paused, then gave her a sideways glance. "You seem to be managing with all of this easily."

Whilst Darial's expression didn't flicker for an instant, her heel slamming down on his toe was quite noticeable, as was the anger in her voice, so skilfully hidden that he only knew of its presence due to experience. "You, Belgrade, are not an actor. You may have a quick tongue and wit, but you've never been able to quite go the distance when having to falsely immerse yourself in something which goes completely against your morals. It's pretending, Belgrade. See it as such, and try to be more convincing when we talk to Ployer."

Belgrade sighed. "Very well. But we are supposed to be a married couple; this would be more convincing if you were not trying to eradicate my toe. The plain fact that your expression speaks of a desire to throttle me also hinders our role."

"Call it a lovers' tiff," Darial replied lightly, catching the slightly guilty glance this suggestion brought. "I'm angry at you, my wealthy husband, because you decided to bet all of our winnings on a diminutive gladiator," she continued, her keen gaze settling on Xanthus, who had only then just emerged into the pit.

Belgrade frowned. "This is to be Ployer's biggest fight; what is he doing using someone so small of stature to play such a key role? I would have assumed he would have placed his greatest thug to deal with the Copper Coronet's best!"

"This wasn't to be predicted. Maybe that's the idea," the bard replied, shrugging a little. "Ployer's bound to have a card up his sleeve. Perhaps a pair of nobles with a vested interest in the baron's slaves should have a conversation with him?" Darial nodded over to where Ployer was standing with the pit-master and owner of the Coronet, Skorrid, barely ten metres to their left.

Belgrade raised an eyebrow as he followed her gaze, and smiled a slightly predatory smile. "Let's go, shall we?" he asked, falling into step behind her as she wound her way through the throng of shouting aristocrats.

The cause of the racket, namely the two pit-fighters, were unaware of anything other than each other. So far, The Hammer had failed to land a blow on Aergoth Xanthus, who had similarly inflicted only a few minor wounds, which did nothing to his opponent's hefty armour.

Xanthus was speedy and The Hammer was strong; this balanced it. However, the gladiator of Rashemen had one minor advantage: he was used to these sorts of fights. The Hammer had anticipated a burly warrior like himself he could crush with his flail; he had not expected a tiny blur, whirling around him at speed, strongly deflecting blows with his oversized sword.

"Tell me," Xanthus panted, in a momentary lull as the momentum of a swing of the flail left The Hammer unable to change direction and strike him, "where are you from, man? Northern peaks, or southern plains?"

He got an elbow in the face for his troubles, but had seen it coming and managed to turn his head so the blow didn't break his nose as it was intended to. It still cracked his skull back and would doubtless leave an oversized bruise on his cheekbone.

"North," was the gruff reply of The Hammer, who moved surprisingly swiftly to the side as Xanthus darted forwards in a stabbing motion with his sword, and the blade deflected off the chunky armour harmlessly. "And I'll be grinding your eastern hide into the dust!"

The Rashemani twisted to avoid a downwards swing of his enemy's flail. "I'm not sure your limited brain will be aware of this, but grinding hides into dust is quite difficult. If you'd said 'eastern bones' then it would have been a little better, but hides? Maybe skin me and turn me into a coat, but grinding flesh is not an easy matter."

The Hammer hesitated a moment, evidently faced with a form of combat in the ring he had not anticipated but automatically searching for a retort to deal with the impertinent midget Xanthus seemed to be. This fleeting lapse of concentration cost him dearly as his opponent's fist, still wrapped around the hilt of his sword, slammed into his face, bloodying the nose.

The Hammer staggered back, his vision exploding before his eyes, but the seasoned pit-fighter would have died ten times over if he had not learnt to manage to cope with these sorts of tactics or injuries. He whirled his flail in front of him, timing it so that anyone foolish enough to launch forwards in an attempt to finish him off would have their skull split in half.

But the attack had not come from in front of him, for Xanthus was an equally seasoned pit-fighter who had been forced to learn all the tricks giants like The Hammer and had anticipated the tactic a more blundering gladiator would have fallen for. So the Copper Coronet's champion was most surprised when he felt, for only a split second, the tip of a steel blade biting into the _back_ of his neck, in between the small gap between helmet and plate armour.

Although the way The Hammer was already falling to the floor with a half-severed head suggested he was already dead, Xanthus still whipped his small dagger from out of the sheathe inside his sleeve where he kept it and stabbed it into another chink in his opponent's rusty armour.

The cheer of the crowd went up decibels at the final strike and despite himself the Rashemani gladiator felt the adrenaline surge through him at the rush of the kill. This euphoria, a mixture of elation at surviving and glee of despatching an enemy both sickened and incensed him, but he managed to maintain control enough to turn to where he knew Ployer was standing in the crowd, screaming with utter delight, and raise his sword to the Calimshite in a subtly mocking salute.

"Ten thousand! Ten thousand gold, you piece of scum, and I'll even take it in instalments if this defeat has left you penniless!" Ployer shouted gleefully to Skorrid over the roar of the crowd. The Copper Coronet pit master had turned an odd shade of green, beyond amazed that his giant of a champion had been defeated by a whelp of a fighter.

"You… _cheated_," Skorrid spat, wringing his hands together nervously then wiping the sweat from his bald dome of a head. "That was an unfair match. You've been magically pumping the midget up, making him stronger. There is no other way that he could have beaten The Hammer!"

Ployer grabbed Skorrid, still too delighted to take offence at the accusation, and pulled him around to stare him straight in the eye. "Bring in all the mages you want; they'll confirm that this boy has no enhancements!" he laughed happily. "The lad is golden! Absolutely golden! He'll make my fortune!"

Skorrid pulled himself from out of Ployer's grasp, and straightened his clothes haughtily. "Yes. He is powerful indeed. I would like to suggest that you consider taking up that partnership I had offered Mayberry… after all, his slaves didn't fight too well today; there's minimal profit there."

Ployer smiled a feral, cat-like smile. "I believe that last time you said you wouldn't stick your name next to mine even if the Abyss itself sent demons after you. This is a sudden change of tune, no, Skorrid?" The rat-like owner of the Coronet glowered a little, and the Calimshite relented, extending his hand. "Very well. I accept. 'Tis a lucrative deal."

Skorrid smiled slimily. "I'm glad you agree, Baron Ployer." He withdrew his hand and subtly wiped it on his tunic. "But I must go attend to the crowd and the next entertainment. I believe fortune awaits us both, my friend," he continued, slipping in between a pair of nobles and disappearing amongst the masses.

"It can await many of us," a voice by Ployer's ear murmured cheerfully and playfully, and the baron whirled around to see a tall, dapper-looking character in all the finery of a local noble. A slender, dark-haired woman in a neatly-fitting fine dress was attached to his arm, large dark eyes staring at him in a rather disturbingly innocent fashion above a playful smile.

"The name's Lord Belgrade," the man declared cheerfully, extending his hand. "Of Luskan. I'm here in Athkatla looking for… any interesting business opportunities. I believe I've found one."

Ployer paused, taking in Belgrade's accent, garb, and mannerisms before slowly smiling a broad and mildly greedy grin, his eyes lighting up at all of the prospects that were being thrown at him today.


	10. Chapter 10: Loose Ends

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Chapter 10: Loose Ends

"What are we doing here?" an impatient Jaheira demanded of Khalid as the two of them sat in the common room of the Copper Coronet, having been told to give these first fights at the pits a miss whilst Belgrade and Darial tried to ingratiate themselves with Ployer.

"Who k-knows," a mildly morose Khalid replied, shrugging as he stared into his ale. "G-Gorion said that we should t-take a look around, s-see if we can somehow ingratiate ourselves w-with the r-regulars. T-to what end, I h-haven't a clue."

"This is because there _is _no end to it," the druid retorted sharply, giving him a glare. They had been lurking in a corner for almost an hour now, mostly in silence, and Jaheira had spent much of the morning taking her irritation on this situation out on Khalid, who had done nothing to deserve her wrath. "Gorion merely does not believe that we have any use; he would much rather pass this situation over to Belgrade and Darial and ignore our presence. We are unproven; thus we are too… _dangerous _to be trusted with this assignment."

"T-then why did they _g-give _us this assignment in the f-first p-place?" Khalid demanded, equally shortly, his usually good-natured manner worn down after a morning of Jaheira's mood. "They m-must have g-given us this j-job for a r-reason. It m-must have _some _value!"

"To keep us out of the way!" Jaheira responded, ignoring the fact that this was a fairly circular argument. "We shall be sitting here, waiting with baited breath for somebody – Darial or Gorion, most likely – to decide that they might, possibly, want our help. Then we sweep in, do whatever pathetic job they require of us, get mildly congratulated, then move on to return to obscurity."

"Has anybody ever t-told you that y-you're absolutely _insufferable_, J-Jaheira?" Khalid answered, his irritation at last getting the better of him. Whilst the half-elven warrior was usually too self-conscious and nervous to ever dare to tell someone like Jaheira so bluntly what he thought of them, he would also rarely back down when he had been incensed enough to take that final step.

She glared at him, but he managed to meet her gaze unfalteringly until the venom in her eyes subsided a little. "On occasion," Jaheira muttered, still mildly bitter. "But my point still stands. We are nothing but unnecessary extras here. We could be doing something useful. Instead, we have been assigned to… to what? To sit and watch, to gather information."

"Watching and w-waiting are two of the most important t-things we could be d-doing. P-patience shall serve us w-well here," Khalid murmured, calmer and more thoughtful as he sipped his ale. "I agree that we d-don't seem to have _t-too _much to actually do here, but we must be r-ready in case D-Darial or Gorion needs us to d-do something. We must be p-patient."

Jaheira sighed once more, but now it was a noise of resigned irritation rather than the bubbling fury that had gripped her a few moments beforehand. "That," she declared haughtily, "is a rather vague assignment."

Khalid also sighed, shaking his head as he stood up, grasping his empty tankard and reaching for her empty glass. "Another s-spring wine?" he asked lightly, evidently deciding to flee the conversation rather than continue to impossibly debate with Jaheira. He had already worked out that she was not somebody to logically discuss something with when she was this aggravated.

She nodded slowly as he turned and headed for the bar, and sat vacantly for a few moments, fiddling with her chain shirt as she waited. This was becoming beyond a joke – how did Gorion _expect _them to prove their worth to him if he didn't give them an opportunity?

"There has to be something we can do," she mumbled to herself, sighing yet again as she brushed a stray lock of hair behind one slightly pointed ear. "Something… productive. Something that can actually mean something."

"I believe I can help you with that," a voice interrupted her spoken thoughts, and whilst the delicate figure that eased itself into the chair next to her suggested Khalid's return, the silky-smooth tones proved otherwise.

Jaheira raised an eyebrow haughtily as she regarded the intruder evaluatingly. He was an elf, as far as she could see, dressed in garish yet functional garb which rather suggested a sailor's life. He also happened to have a particularly broad, hopeful and inane smile on his face.

"Just who," the half-elven druid started in slow, measured tones, "do you think you are? And who gave you permission to sit in that seat? I believe it's taken. I do happen to be here with someone."

The elf's grin broadened as he daringly reached out and grabbed her hand before kissing it lightly, Jaheira only allowing him to do so because she was too stunned to react. "He's not sitting here right now. I have been watching you from afar for many a while, hoping that I could have the chance to talk with you. And now that chance has come, I see you are even more… sensuous and beauteous than I had thought."

"Many a while?" Jaheira repeated, quickly withdrawing her hand and glaring at the offending elf. "I have been here for an hour. Move along, you fool, before you get a quarterstaff in between your eyes."

He raised his hands in mock-submission, affecting a wounded air. "But my darling, I only seek to win your affections! Will you not even grant this unworthy spirit the chance to gaze adoringly upon your face from afar?"

Jaheira raised an eyebrow, hand surreptitiously reaching for her weapon. "Indeed, from afar. From afar indeed…"

"Is there a problem?"

Before she could grab her staff and beat the elf around the head for being such an intolerable buffoon, Khalid had returned, setting down both drinks back on the table and fixing the elf with a suspicious stare, his hand visibly reaching for his longsword. "Are you bothering the lady?" he continued, his stammer noticeably reduced as he spoke.

The elf gaped, leaping to his feet, keeping a chair in between himself and Khalid. "Ah, no, no," he replied hurriedly, also noticing the half-elven warrior's blade. "I was just… talking, with the lady. Discussing the weather. I'll leave you now," he finished, then turned and practically ran back to the table he had been seated at since they had arrived.

Khalid turned to Jaheira, suddenly looking as slightly nervous as usual as he released his sword. "Who w-was he t-to make you feel as if y-you needed to g-get out your weapon? Any k-kind of threat?"

Jaheira shrugged as Khalid sipped his ale. "Not particularly. He was just annoying me," she murmured, frowning at the back of the intruding elf, gathering her drink with a grateful glance at Khalid.

He looked incredulous for a moment. "Y-you mean to s-say that I c-came on the v-verge of making a scene, p-purely because somebody w-was _annoying _y-you?" he demanded, raising an eyebrow.

She glanced lightly and a little imperiously at him. "You didn't need to intervene, you know. I could have dealt with him myself quite easily."

Khalid sighed. "Y-yes, but you w-would have smashed his s-skull in h-half and caused even _m-more _of a scene than the alternative w-would h-have," he pointed out, a little dejectedly. "But c-come now. Y-you wanted s-something to do? I was at the b-bar, and I overheard one of the p-patrons mention that he s-served on board the ship the _S-Seawolf_. That w-was the ship P-Ployer b-bought the slaves off, no?"

Jaheira smiled at him, a little surprised as she stood lightly. "It was indeed. Perhaps we should go and have a talk to him. After all, we're supposed to ingratiate ourselves with many of the patrons… and you've already scared off one, so we would do well to make up for it. Maybe we buy him a drink?"

Khalid grimaced a little, half-regretting that he'd told her, tagging along behind as she wound her way through the crowd of the Copper Coronet, heading towards the bar. When he got there, Jaheira had already struck up a conversation with Bernard, a podgy serving boy.

"You there," she started as politely as was to be expected from her. "You work here. Could you possibly tell me who that individual over there is?" Surprisingly enough, she was not pointing at any of the piratical candidates standing at the bar, but discreetly gesturing towards the offending elf on the other side of the tavern.

The boy followed her gaze, then smiled a little ruefully. "I do, yes. That there's Salvanas. He comes here for about a fortnight every three months, whenever his ship stops by here. He's been doing that for quite a few years now. Absolute regular." Bernard shifted as he caught Jaheira's expression, and nodded knowingly. "Has a tendency to annoy the female patrons, yes, indeed."

"Hmm. Salvanas," Jaheira mused, catching up with Khalid, who had continued towards the bar. "That's a name and a face I'll remember if I ever get around to being in a position to set fire to the little wretch."

Khalid sighed. "I'm s-sure that, b-by then, he'll be so insignificant that y-you'll have absolutely f-forgotten just w-who in the Nine H-Hells he is," he pointed out as they reached the bar, pulling up stools. "N-now, you wanted to d-do something useful. Over there is R-Ramman Thorstein, first mate on the _Seawolf_. H-he might be s-someone we can t-talk to, once he's so d-drunk his t-tongue has loosened…"

Jaheira smiled a slightly predatory smile as she glanced down at the small purse of gold attached to her belt securely. "I believe that Gorion gave us enough funds to lounge luxuriously for a few days here at the Copper Coronet. I'm sure there's enough here for us to buy a sailor a drink…"


	11. Chapter 11: Rewards, Incentives, Hopes

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Chapter 11: Rewards, Incentives, Hopes

It was much later that night before Xanthus was let out of his cell by Warner and escorted out of the gloomy cellars full of slaves, not even permitted to finish the comparatively decent meal that he and every other gladiator had been given as reward for the day's hardships. Of the fifty slaves Ployer had owned, sixteen had fought. Of those sixteen, a dozen remained, a far higher proportion than usual and thus a cause for a vaguely macabre celebration.

He was taken outside into a courtyard, had buckets of ice-cold water thrown over him, and, as he stood there shivering, a vaguely clean tunic had been passed over for him to wear. Then, only then, was he taken to where Ployer was dining with his new investors and shareholders in the gladiator business.

Darial raised an eyebrow as Warner pulled a reluctant Xanthus into the dining room, and threw Belgrade a glare to ensure he maintained his composure. The Rashemani gladiator looked vaguely clean and presentable, even though his tunic was a size too large, with only the leather strapping he wore on top – that could only _most _generously be called armour – keeping it in place.

Ployer smiled a bright, glittering smile. "At last! The hero of the day!" he exclaimed, standing up and gesturing to one of the unoccupied seats in the extensive and luxurious dining room. "Pull up a chair, my boy, and I'll have you brought some food you'll have never tasted the like of in your life!"

Xanthus sat down slowly, visibly taut, ready to leap into action at a moment's notice, perching in a fight-or-flight stance. "Thank you, my lord Ployer," he replied courteously, with a slight edge to his tone that was so subtly mocking only the bard Darial noticed it, and had to quickly suppress the tugging of a smile.

The Calimshite, amazingly, passed his slave a plate. "No problem at all, my boy," he declared, ignoring the fact that Xanthus couldn't have been many more than five years younger than himself. "Nothing but the best for my champion."

The Rashemani nodded slowly, playing intimidated and grateful, but the wary glances he threw his owner spoke of his readiness. He nodded slowly as one of Ployer's servants stepped forward to heap up the plate. "My thanks, milord," Xanthus continued, his expression unreadable. "Though I would rather I did not get better treatment than my fellows in the cells."

Belgrade coughed, and somehow managed to make even that mundane action seem pompous. "Spirited fellow, isn't he?" he blustered, smiling jovially. "Most of your men around here don't have enough backbone to stand up straight."

Ployer smiled, nodding slowly and knowledgeably. "If he didn't have backbone, my Lord Belgrade, then he wouldn't be a champion." He glanced at Xanthus. "Because that's what you are, my boy. My golden champion."

Xanthus resisted the urge to recoil with disgust as he glanced at Belgrade. "I assume that you, my lord, are an investor?" he commented lightly. He knew this was a little forward of him, but Ployer had extended the familiar courteous favouritism most slavers gave to their most powerful gladiators, and so a minor discourtesy was allowed. He had seen it before, with others; most of the champion pit-fighters would become complacent, forget that they were still captives, revel in the luxuries thrown to them by grateful and greedy owners, and then, when they become too complacent or old to bring in the gold, they became food for the beasts. Xanthus might visibly accept Ployer's favour, but he would never truly accept something stained with the blood of innocents.

Darial nodded slowly. "We saw your performance today, Mister Xanthus. We were most impressed. Baron Ployer could go very far with some of the fighters he owns. We would like to… ride to the heights with him, for every person needs a little support." She gave Ployer a brief sideways smile, then her eyes met Xanthus' again. There was a momentary pause as something passed between the two performers, then they both looked innocently at the other pair present.

Belgrade glanced at Darial before focusing his attention on Ployer. "Indeed. You said yourself, Lord Ployer, that any financial assistance would be welcome. We're willing to support you in any way you wish… for a slice of future winnings, of course."

"Of course." Ployer smiled indulgently, then turned to Xanthus. "I brought you here to congratulate you, my boy. Today, your performance in the ring won me a contract which should bring in more gold for me, and more glory for you. The way from here is only up." He leant forwards slightly. "With you, I can go far. With me, you can stay alive, and live easily. If you win for me, if you help take us both far, I'll shower down riches and favours that you won't have enjoyed for years." The Calimshite's expression darkened a little. "If you lose, then… you'll be on the list for lion bait."

Xanthus didn't miss a beat as he met his owner's gaze, not faltering in the face of Ployer's dark warning. "If I lose, Lord Ployer, then I won't be alive to be on the list for lion bait. You have called me the best. The best don't lose. The best also don't show mercy. If I'm beaten, then I'll be struck down in the pit."

Ployer leant back coolly, folding his arms across his chest as Xanthus started to attack the plateful of food as if he hadn't eaten in a lifetime. "I hope that doesn't happen, my boy," the slaver started, sweetness and light once more. "You have much potential. So much potential. This dinner is the reward for today's actions – at the fight next week, if you win again, you shall get a single favour of your choosing, and I shall try to meet that favour. Is that enough incentive?"

Xanthus smiled tightly. "Death if I lose is enough of an incentive – this is enough of a reward that victory shall be sweeter," he said lightly, his expression a mask of pleasure as he spoke through almost gritted teeth.

Ployer smiled nauseatingly. "Good. Now if only –"

He was interrupted by Warner striding slowly into the room, pushing open the massive doors and giving them all an appraising glance. "Milord, Skorrid from the Copper Coronet is waiting for you downstairs. He wishes to speak with you," he intoned in his deep base voice, then looked briefly at the other three, glaring momentarily at Xanthus. "Alone."

Ployer sighed. "Does that man ever give me a moment's peace? Very well, I'll be right there." He stood slowly and stiffly before turning and starting towards the door, Warner giving them a glower as he closed it behind his master.

Xanthus waited a moment, noting all was silent once the door had been closed, then turned to Belgrade and Darial. "Fine. I'll bite. Just who in the Nine Hells _are _you people?" he demanded coolly, raising an eyebrow.

Belgrade looked surprised, but Darial shrugged casually. "People who want to help you gain your freedom," the latter replied calmly, as the former realised he had rather missed the subtexts between his friend and the slave.

"Are you sure it's safe to talk in here?" Belgrade demanded, feeling momentarily light-headed as he realised the speed at which much of the talking had already gone by silently without his noticing. "Warner may be listening at the door, or some such underhand difficulty."

Xanthus cocked his head to one side for a moment. "No, we're safe," he replied firmly, frowning a little. "Ployer has these doors magically silenced for his own privacy. Now we're using it against him." His mouth twitched a little. "Amusing." There was a moment's hesitation, then he fixed Darial with an inquisitive glance. "So why do you care if I live free or die?"

The bard shrugged slightly. "We're Harpers," she said, keeping her voice down despite Xanthus' assurance of safety. "We've been assigned to try and bring down Ployer. Thus, we help you."

Belgrade nodded slowly. "What he's doing, what Ployer is doing to you… is not right. Not in the least."

Xanthus smiled tightly again, an uncharacteristic hint of merriment in his eyes. "Thank you, friend, I wasn't sure I'd noticed that until now," he replied dryly, then once more turned his attention to Darial, already noting that she was the one of the pair who was in control.

She smiled back, clearly having taken a liking to the gladiator. "It's good we got to talk to you now. You're Ployer's favourite, and as such will be given certain liberties others who would help us won't." She paused, considering. "That is, if you _will _help us, of course. We'd appreciate it –"

Xanthus held up a hand. "Don't embarrass yourself by finishing that sentence, and just think about what I've lived through, and whether or not I'd like to carry on with that existence. Then you have your answer." Darial nodded slowly, biting her lower lip a little nervously. "What's your plan?" The gladiator of Rashemen asked carefully.

Belgrade grimaced a little. "Right now? Not much. Gather information – we have people placed in key areas relevant to Ployer's pit-fighting activities. Once we have more of a clue as to what's going on, we'll devise a plan. This campaign on slavery is very much in the preliminary stages."

Xanthus nodded, then froze as the door creaked a little and the handle was turned. "Count me in," he hissed, then pasted a neutral expression on his face as Ployer walked casually in, not appearing to be even vaguely suspicious of the sudden silence that greeted his arrival, for it was swiftly broken by Darial smiling brightly and asking for some more wine.


	12. Chapter 12: Being Someone, Having Someon...

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Chapter 12: Being Someone, Having Someone

Meanwhile, as Belgrade and Darial were busy making first contact with Aergoth Xanthus, Khalid and Jaheira were perched on a low wall above the sea and the piers of the docks district, the former with a spy-glass raised to his eye, the latter holding a half-empty bottle, which they had been sharing for the past few hours.

"Is it still there?" Jaheira asked, taking a sip of the unidentified alcoholic liquid they had bought from a nearby merchant to aid the passing of the time as they searched in the docks.

Khalid nodded slowly, still peering through the spy-glass, with one hand raised to block out the sun, which was low in the sky and threatening to blind him as he scanned the horizon. "T-the _Seawolf _is s-still anchored offshore," he told her, squinting a little in the evening half-light. "T-the _Wolf Fang _is still d-docked d-down at the p-pier."

Their time that day had been well spent. A subtle and costly interrogation of the _Seawolf_'s first mate Ramman Thorstein had given them enough information to lead them here to the docks; enough information that they had the first smidgen of information about the _Seawolf _and her crew. But Thorstein had not quite been intoxicated enough to give them the really vital information, and so Jaheira had dragged an unwilling Khalid down to the docks for them to find out by themselves.

"The _Fang _has been there for the entire day now," Jaheira mused thoughtfully, having asked around down the docks. "I would assume that Bates told Thorstein to take her to Athkatla, with a handful of the crew, for some shore leave, but why is the _Seawolf _still in Amn's waters anyway? Gorion said that she had departed soon after delivering the slaves to Ployer's… care."

Khalid shrugged. "I d-don't know," he confessed, lowering the glass and putting it in a small leather case he attached to his girdle. "That is s-something Thorstein w-wouldn't t-tell us, and something w-we should p-pass on t-to Gorion when we t-talk to him t-tomorrow. I'm s-sure he can f-find some answers for us."

Jaheira nodded and sighed, passing the bottle over to him considerately. "It is indeed suspicious. We would do well to try and investigate further… see if we can prove to Gorion that Bates didn't just leave something behind, or such," she pointed out, shrugging and looking mildly hopeful.

Khalid missed her expression as he took a swig from the bottle. "B-but this is n-not what we w-were supposed to do. W-we know almost n-nothing of w-what we'd be g-getting into w-with regards t-to the p-pirates. We're h-here t-to deal with Ployer, and n-nothing else. One s-step at a time."

She gave him a slightly scathing glance. "We're here to deal with _slavers_, Khalid, which the pirates most certainly are. What if we were to just go down to the _Fang _and investigate; see what we could find? Or smuggle on board so it takes us to the _Seawolf _herself, and work from there?" Her face was deathly serious.

Khalid stared at her incredulously. "That's c-c-c-crazy!" he stuttered heavily. "Are y-you insane? That's c-crazy!" He paused, reeling for a moment. "G-Gorion t-told us t-to stay at the C-Copper C-Coronet and f-find w-what we c-could about the p-pit fighting t-there. W-we're already b-breaking orders, j-just by b-being here!"

"Actually, we were told to stay at the Copper Coronet and become familiar faces; Gorion said nothing about finding out anything about the pit fighting, but that's besides the point," Jaheira reminded him. "But I see no reason why we can't take things to an extra step. We're Harpers; is this not what we do?"

"D-deal with t-things like s-slavery? Y-yes," Khalid stammered. "R-rush headlong into s-situations w-which k-kill us? _N-no_. W-we would d-do well to come back h-here later, w-when we know m-more of w-what we are f-facing." He sighed, and squinted at the distant shape of the _Seawolf _again. "P-pirates are t-too unpredictable f-for us to c-charge head on and f-face them."

Jaheira considered this a moment, then unfolded her long legs and hopped to her feet before striding down the street, heading towards the stairs that led to the piers of the docks district. "Very well. I suggest you cover me, then, and warn me if you see any of the pirates returning."

There was a scrabbling behind her as Khalid presumably tried to get up, then she felt her shoulders gripped firmly before she was whirled around, ending up nose to nose with the half-elven warrior.

"No," he said, his usual stutter gone as he spoke slowly and forcefully. "That's rather suicidal, don't you think? We'll stay with what we've been told, because otherwise you're just charging headfirst into disaster. Somehow I don't think that's a particularly good idea." Then Khalid released her, and as she gave him a suspicious and evaluating look, the sort of nervous and sheepish expression she had begun to expect of him crossed his face, and he was suddenly the jumpy warrior she knew once again.

"We have to do something," Jaheira said cautiously, folding her arms across her chest as she continued to stare suspiciously, wondering where this confident man had been hiding behind this jumpy shell. "We cannot simply sit here and do _nothing_."

Khalid looked at her, then backed off and slowly sat down again. "I d-don't see why n-not," he replied, the stammer returning as he slowly shifted back to 'normal'. "We w-wait for Gorion's orders. B-besides, why are y-you so eager to r-rush headlong into d-danger and d-death?"

Jaheira snorted as she moved over to sit next to him, the moment of rushing into action having passed. She grabbed the bottle and took a swig. "I'm not rushing into danger and death. We are Harpers. This is what we do – not sit around in taverns trying to become comfortable regulars."

Khalid sighed as he accepted the bottle. "That d-day will come," he told her gently, sipping the drink. "N-not now, n-no. B-but soon. We _a-are_ untested. C-can you r-really blame G-Gorion?"

"No," Jaheira admitted. "Which is why I'm trying to become tested. So that we can actually help the others, instead of simply sitting here pointlessly, like dead weights which have no use."

"D-Darial and B-Belgrade will c-cope perfectly w-well on their own, w-without our help, have n-no fear." Khalid paused as he gave her a considerate look, then realisation dawned slowly, and he sighed again. "Ah. T-that is it. Y-you do n-not trust him, or h-her, or b-both."

Jaheira glared at him. "I think they are professional enough to simply go about their business when given an assignment such as this to work on. You are blowing this all out of proportion," she accused him, snatching the bottle and draining it, much to Khalid's concern.

He didn't complain, however, merely gave her an evaluating glance. "I'm n-not sure _I'm _the one b-blowing things out of p-proportion. As you s-said, they are b-both professionals. And y-yes, someday, s-soon, you'll b-be accompanying h-him on mission j-just as she does." He shifted, not meeting her gaze.

Jaheira glowered quietly. "You really think me as pathetic as that?" she demanded, just how ridiculous her irritability and jealousy were starting to sink in as he pointed it out to her. "It is not _that_. It is simply that… I am a Harper. I just wish I had the opportunity to actually _act _as such. I am a druid as well, but that is a role I already fulfil. I feel like… half a Harper."

"And t-that doesn't m-make things easier w-when the one p-person in your l-life is a… a f-full Harper, so to speak?" Khalid observed lightly, raising an eyebrow and looking irritatingly honest. As she opened her mouth to retort sharply, he continued. "I m-mean, I assume t-that there _is _n-nobody else in y-your life."

Jaheira continued to glare. "To say that there is nobody in my life is something of an exaggeration, not to mention unfair. I have druid companions. I have friends in the Harpers. I have – "

"I d-did not s-say that t-there was n-nobody in the l-life of J-Jaheira the Harper, or Jaheira the d-druid. I w-was asking if t-there was anyone in the l-life of _J-Jaheira_," Khalid replied quietly and frankly.

Jaheira sighed, scrubbing her face with her hands wearily. "My family were killed in the Tethyr civil war. I left my grove when I joined the Harpers will Belgrade. So no, I have nobody," she admitted, then glanced at him. "And you? What of the mysterious Harper of Calimport?"

Khalid smiled dryly. "M-my father wished I h-had never b-been born, f-for my existence d-damaged his r-reputation. A r-respectable b-businessman, with a b-bastard child. T-there was no love l-lost between m-me and my h-half-b-brothers. I g-grew up with a f-family, but r-rather alone." He glanced at her, still wearing the slightly sad smile. "S-so you see, at l-least you have s-someone."

She clapped him on the shoulder lightly. "And yet the one person I have, I have irrational fears about losing him to someone else. Place the emphasis on the irrational." She laughed humourlessly. "Aren't we a pair?"

Khalid shrugged, his smile lightening a shade. "I w-wouldn't w-worry. When I s-spoke to D-Darial as we came here, she s-seemed to suggest that it w-was well and t-truly over b-between her and B-Belgrade."

Jaheira nodded, then froze and looked slowly at him. "What did you just say?" she asked cautiously, frowning a little bit.

"As f-far as D-Darial's concerned, it's over b-between her and B-Belgrade. I'd assume B-Belgrade feels the s-same," Khalid replied, a little oblivious to her odd expression and rather shocked look.

"They… used to be together," Jaheira said slowly, carefully, rolling the words around inside her mouth.

Khalid nodded. "Y-yes." Realisation dawned eventually, and his eyes widened. "Y-you didn't k-know?" he demanded, looking shocked and utterly mortified all at once as he stared at her. "H-he didn't tell you?"

Jaheira paused for a moment, taking a few calming breaths, then stood up and started to stride back up the street the way she had come, knowing that he would follow her, wherever she was headed.

"W-where are we g-going?" Khalid asked as he stood and hurried to trot along beside her as she strode purposefully along the docks district.

"Back to the Copper Coronet," Jaheira replied morosely. "We're supposed to be regulars, after all. And what is it, above all, that makes regulars noticed in a tavern such as the Copper Coronet?"

Khalid sighed as he saw the answer, and nodded sympathetically. "D-drinking?"


	13. Chapter 13: Steaming Ahead

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Chapter 13: Steaming Ahead

Gorion leant across the solid oak table which sat in the centre of one of the more secure and 'snug' rooms within the Athkatlan Harper hold three days later, his gaze flickering over each of the four party members seated before him, each with varying degrees of nervousness or confidence.

Darial appeared totally in control; cool, calm, confident, and she met his gaze without wavering. This was what he had always expected of her – even if the Hells themselves were about to rise onto Faerûn, Darial would meet it with a confident air, no matter how panicked she might actually be. It was irritating to work with a bard – the best were ever-so impossible to read. And Gorion tended to only work with the best.

Belgrade was a little fidgety, seeming somehow guilty, and he didn't make eye contact with Gorion. He made the occasional glance at Jaheira, who forcefully ignored him, and seemed far too aware of the underlying tension that was running rampant throughout the room.

The aforementioned Jaheira seemed to somehow be sitting in the middle of it. Whilst her stance was casual, and she slouched in her chair in a relaxed yet not impertinent manner, the tilt of her head, the way her hand gripped the armrest, and the occasional flashes of anger in her eyes – especially when Belgrade tried to make eye contact – told the extent of her strain.

Then, finally, there was Khalid, who looked a little calmer than usual. This was not saying much, because whenever Gorion's gaze turned in the warrior half-elf's direction, he seemed to almost leap out of his seat, flustered, and look unnecessarily embarrassed. Whilst Gorion had heard of the young man's ability from Darial and other Harpers Khalid had worked with in the past, he was still waiting for this jumpy individual to prove himself suitably.

He finally felt that he had waited long enough, and the tension was even beginning to get to him. These were important days, with important matters, and sitting around trying to evaluate people was merely a waste of time when they could prove themselves far better with action. Gorion straightened up. "What have you found?"

Darial leant forward casually, pulling a scroll out from an inside pocket of her leather jerkin and unrolling it. Even upside-down, Gorion could recognise the surprisingly neat calligraphy of the bard's on the paper, with the occasional scrawl of Belgrade's annotating it.

"Ployer's in our pocket," Darial told Gorion confidently. "He thinks we're a pair of investors, and we had the gold to prove it. He's just lapping it up, and the more successful he becomes, the more influential and important within his business we become, the more chance we'll have of being close enough to slip a knife in his back."

Belgrade nodded slowly, confidence seeping into him in the face of official matters. "Aye. We have also made contact with Ployer's prize gladiator, a Rashemani called Aergoth Xanthus. Provided he lives long enough to see our plan come into play, he could be extremely valuable, especially if his status wins him certain favours with Ployer," the Luskan thief offered quietly.

Gorion pondered this for a moment before nodding. "Very good. Things are going ahead as planned. Excellent." He opened his mouth as if to say something, then hesitated and turned to the other two. "And you? Did you find anything of importance at the Copper Coronet?"

__

He wasn't going to ask us anything at all, Khalid thought with a sinking heart. _We're very much being pushed out of the carpet on this one. Oh, Gods, Jaheira's realised he might be patronising us…_

The half-elven druid raised an eyebrow at the ancient sage. "We did indeed," she answered, a little defiantly. "Although there was little at the Copper Coronet for us to do regarding Ployer, whilst there we ran into someone who shouldn't have been in Athkatla at all." She smiled tightly at the curious glances this statement won her. "Ramman Thorstein. The _Seawolf _is still in Amnian waters. She's returned."

Gorion, to his credit, merely blinked at the news. "This was unexpected," he declared, frowning a little with thought. Then he straightened up. "I shall have people to look into it. Whilst it does not directly affect our work with Ployer, it is still a curious development, and one which could be quite important. Especially if Bates and Thorstein decide to get involved with Ployer again." He nodded slowly to Jaheira and Khalid, wearing a slight smile. "Good work."

He watched Khalid sag with relief and mild gratitude, much of the panic visibly seeping out of the young fighter whilst Jaheira merely nodded, loosening a very little, as if this was simply what she had expected of the conversation. These two inexperienced Harpers both amused and intrigued him, and he was quite interested in seeing how they developed or proved themselves. Perhaps they could be given some more responsibility after all – if they had no _chances _to prove themselves, how could he expect them to?

"Matters have changed a little," Gorion declared, looking at them all. "We no longer have the week or so of time that had been anticipated. Galvarey informed me that apparently Herald Vedus wishes us to push ahead, as the slaving black market has been flourishing and a quick attack on one of the more prominent faces in the underworld might make things slow down significantly. We need to act as soon as possible."

He shifted to glance at Belgrade and Darial. "You mentioned that you have someone on the inside. Very good – we shall need him, and he'll fit in to what I have intended quite nicely. Ployer is showering him with favours for his victories, yes? We shall take advantage of that…"

All four listened attentively to Gorion as he explained his plan calmly and confidently. It was simple, but could definitely work.

The main problems with accusing Ployer were twofold: one, finding the necessary evidence to convict him. This was a simple matter, especially with Darial and Belgrade established within his business. The second was what made things complicated: the absolute nature of Athkatla which made bribing so very easy to do. As the Harpers were not constrained absolutely by the legal limits the authorities in Athkatla were, they had considerably more liberty in their implementation of justice. However, it would not do for them to decide Ployer's fate themselves – that would have to be left to the courts.

It would not be a simple matter of producing the incriminating papers and leaving the rest to Athkatlan authorities; that would fall through. He needed to be caught red-handed, and such a matter was not particularly easy. Especially as Ployer would not willingly allow a collection of perceived vigilantes into his house, and they could hardly lay siege to a nobleman's mansion in the middle of the government district.

The plan dealt with these problems and, barring unexpected twists to throw them off course, looked as if it could work admirably. It was also fairly short and simple to explain, and so the party found themselves standing outside in the Docks District, again in the evening light, within a handful of minutes.

Belgrade glanced at them all, looking worn and weary yet fairly attentive. "Another trip to the Sea's Bounty?" he suggested lightly, looking as if he might fall asleep on his feet if the suggestion was rejected.

Jaheira grimaced. "Perhaps for Khalid and myself, but it would not look good if Ployer heard that his two wealthy investors were spending time with a pair of low-lifes like us. Maybe you would do well to stay at the Mithrest," she suggested, not looking at him. "For the length of this quest, would it not be better for us to minimise unofficial interaction?"

A silence fell on them all as tensions rose once more, almost everybody sensing what was to come. Darial glanced around desperately, then fixed her gaze on a spot over Belgrade's shoulder as she grabbed Khalid's arm firmly. "By Tymora, Khalid, there's a _boat_ over there! In the Docks District! Maybe we should go look at it."

Khalid looked infinitely relieved at the suggestion, and nodded firmly. "Th-that's an excellent idea, D-Darial," he replied, looking as mock-amazed as she did. "D-definitely investigate s-something so s-suspicious." And with that, the two hurried off, probably planning to take cover before the fireworks.

Belgrade stared quizzically after them, then grimaced slightly and looked at Jaheira a little tentatively. "Alright. What's going on? Why do you look as if you want to kill me all of a sudden?"

Jaheira glared, and he took a step back. "Maybe because that's an excellent idea," the druid growled, hands on hips. "Since you don't deem it necessary to keep me in the loop about important things."

The thief grimaced again. "Such as? The quest? You're malcontent because –"

Jaheira rolled her eyes. "Thank you. I am glad you think I am quite _that _pathetic, Belgrade. It truly warms my heart to know you have such a low opinion of me. No. I refer to the history of you and Darial." For some reason, she wasn't yelling at him. This was odd. She rather felt like doing so.

Belgrade grimaced yet once more. "Oh, _that_… yes. I see. Well… it's a little bit complicated. Mayhaps I should have told you, but I never thought it quite necessary, and…" He paused a moment, then frowned. "What's so important about that, anyway? Is it really that much of your business for you to know?"

Jaheira shrugged, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Perhaps. Especially with the two of you working in the role you are, maybe I have reason to wonder?"

"And so? Is _that _really much of your business either?" Belgrade demanded, then halted as the words finished tumbling out of your mouth, and he stared at her a little blankly. She didn't look shocked or hurt, or even angry. This was quite bad. "Ah, that is to say that… ah…"

Jaheira raised an eyebrow, an emotionless mask slipping across her face. "Don't. Try. To finish that sentence," she murmured warningly, raising a finger, then turned and strode off, heading in the direction of the Sea's Bounty.

Belgrade stared numbly after her, vaguely aware of the other two detaching themselves from their fake wonder at the ships, somehow noticing that Khalid had hurried after Jaheira, and only returning to reality when a light tap on his shoulder brought him back.

"You. Are. An idiot," Darial sighed as she stood next to him, shaking her head. "Can't say I blame her, either."


	14. Chapter 14: For Duty

__

AN: Ugh! Back on track. Four more chapters to go… *dances* Then I intend to get fully involved in ToD as much as possible, unless I get distracted again. :-S. Either way, things should be wrapping up soon and I won't be running about five projects at a time by the end of the week. Half-term, you see. More time to write. :-D

Oh, and I've never read a single Ed Greenwood book, Fiery Beast of Joy. Just took the phrase from the game – the Spectral Harpers upstairs in the hold keep on going on about 'Those who harp are never truly alone'. Guess what the title would be for any sequel to this? :-D

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Chapter 14: For Duty

"Can you _believe _him?" Jaheira demanded irately as she and Khalid sat, once again, in their seat in the corner of the Copper Coronet. The warrior had been forced to chase after the druid following her abrupt departure from the Docks District, and, as luck would have it, it had started to rain, leaving the both of them soaking wet.

"Erm… n-no?" Khalid hesitated a guess, sipping timidly on his cup of tea, hoping the piping hot liquid would warm his limbs and return a little feeling to his muscles before he froze on the spot.

Whilst the Copper Coronet was warm, it was also a little humid, and that didn't help the moods of either of them. Instead of cold and wet, they were simply warm and wet. This left Jaheira even more livid, and her mood contributed to Khalid's misery. Whilst he knew he should – and even wanted – to help, there was a part of him which wanted to run and hide.

"I mean, _his _life is none of _my _business?" Jaheira continued irritably. "It has nothing to do with me whether or not he's sleeping with Darial? Nice to know that he believes I have this much importance in his life…"

"I d-don't actually think h-he's sleeping with D-Darial," Khalid stammered helplessly, knowing his attempts of reassurance would fall on deaf ears. "I d-don't really know him, but s-she wouldn't d-do t-that."

"I think you're right, but that's not the _point_," Jaheira stressed. "I'm quite aware that the majority of my worry was my own over-active imagination, but for him to suggest… for him to slam the door on me like that was… oh, I'm just going to kill him," she finished, downing her own piping hot cup of tea.

Khalid watched with confusion as she didn't burn her throat, then shrugged, assuming it was some druid thing. "Wait until this m-mission is q-quite over, p-perhaps?" he suggested tentatively. "B-besides, you d-don't have to k-kill him. Maybe j-just… t-talk to him?"

Jaheira turned her furious gaze in his direction, and to Khalid's credit, the half-elven warrior squirmed only a little. It took a few seconds for the druid to realise that he wasn't going to back down, and she subsided with a sigh. "I don't want to talk to him."

"W-what if h-he tries to talk t-to you?" Khalid attempted. "It's b-been a h-hard f-few days. W-we're all f-fairly stressed… it c-could just b-be the q-quest getting t-to him. G-give him s-something of a c-chance when it's all o-over."

Jaheira sighed yet again. "I suppose you're right," she grumbled, evidently still not particularly happy. "I should give him the benefit of the doubt. He's had it harder than we have recently." A bitter expression crossed her face, which Khalid noticed quickly and decided to attempt to drive the conversation away from their uselessness in the quest.

"T-this should b-be over s-soon," he hurried on quickly. "In a f-few d-days, if G-Gorion's p-plan works. And w-we'll b-be helping with that, won't we?" Khalid winced, looking a little hopeful.

The druid gave him a considerate glance. "If everything goes as it should. At least you're happy with your role in the plan, mind… you don't have to do what I do."

"I d-don't think it w-would g-go down as well if I w-was d-doing it," Khalid assured her, smiling a wry and slightly hopeful grin, and he was rewarded with a similar, if slightly tired, smirk from Jaheira.

"Indeed. Let's get this over and done with, then we can get back on with our lives. I'm still going to yell at him, though," the druid insisted.

"Ah, but only for a bit. Not for the long term. You're far too fond of our friend Belgrade to cast him out forever, especially if he repents," Khalid murmured, almost under his breath, but as Jaheira threw him an inquisitive and highly suspicious glance, the half-elven warrior shifted in his chair and collected two more mugs from a passing waitress.

When he turned back to face her, his expression was the same slightly jumpy one he always wore, and there was nothing to suggest he'd even mumbled what she'd heard. Her intrigue in this man increased tenfold.

"More t-tea?" Khalid offered lightly, sliding the mug across the table towards her.

* *

"I am a fool, I am a fool, I am a fool," Belgrade mumbled, punctuating each repetition by bashing his head against the table he and Darial sat at in the Sea's Bounty in the Dock's District. On the third 'fool', he straightened up and lifted a hand tentatively to his forehead. "Ugh… sticky."

"Yes you are, yes you are, yes you are. And that's your own damned fault," Darial sighed, a little bored as she poked suspiciously at the fried fish that sat on her plate. "Are you sure this is still dead?" she asked. "I think it's still writhing."

"It still writhes because you poke it with your fork," Belgrade pointed out brusquely. "If you didn't want to eat it, then you shouldn't have ordered it," he continued, patting at his forehead with his napkin then wishing he hadn't.

"I was _hungry_. Until I had mister brain-dead over there lamenting over his own stupidity. Why don't you take the pro-active solution and _do _something rather than sitting here moping? She's not exactly going to sweep in and forgive you for being a complete bastard, now, is she?" Darial muttered, skewering a piece of fish on her fork and popping it in her mouth tentatively.

"No, I know, but now is not the time to make amends," Belgrade sighed, then gave her a quizzical look. "Any good? Or are you going to run out choking theatrically in an effort to amuse me?"

Darial raised an eyebrow imperiously at him. "If I were to run out of this tavern choking theatrically, I assure you, it wouldn't be for your amusement. You don't deserve my artistic skills to raise your spirits. You deserve to be tortured for being a bastard, yes…"

Belgrade sighed. "Please, help? I need some help, for, as you have so considerately pointed out, I am but a fool and a bastard?"

Darial groaned, then obligingly threw a roast potato at him. He caught it in his mouth deftly and smiled in what was supposed to be a pathetic and slightly winning way. To his credit, it was moderately successful.

"Alright," the bard conceded grudgingly. "Alright, I shall give you the benefit of my knowledge of that simple matter known as _diplomacy_." She leant back in her chair, sipping her ale lightly. "All you have to do is to explain your reasons for being a bastard and hope that they're valid. I can't help you there, because I don't _know _you're reasons."

Belgrade stared at the table, still mopping at the sticky spot on his forehead. "Stress?" he mumbled, then recoiled a little as Darial threw him an evil look. "I mean… the past few days have been hard, and…"

"Belgrade, you're pathetic, you know that?" Darial snapped. "I'm starting to feel even more sorry for Jaheira, ending up with a lug like you."

"Thank you for the support, my good friend, because I really need it right now," Belgrade retorted harshly. "As the past few days have been hellish, with the both of us playing roles where we have to enjoy watching people die for nothing other than lining the pockets of scum like Ployer, where we have to sit along and enjoy the company, _compliment _scum like Ployer, and generally have to act in a way which makes me feel as if I've had all of my morals split in half for duty's sake. I know it's a role, but as every day goes by it really feels as if it's eating me from within as I sit and watch people die and know that I can't help them _yet_, that I can't do anything about it _yet_, and that the _someday _when I will be able to free them seems to become increasingly elusive as time goes by. To top things off, the person who I sincerely care about, whom I think about being able to go on with my life with her after this mess – and that thought keeps me going – has started to doubt me; started to think that I'm slipping a little bit too far into that role in one respect. And when someone who means something to you starts to doubt you in that way, you start to doubt yourself, and I _don't need that_," Belgrade snapped, slamming his fist on the table in what seemed like rage but Darial could see was more upset frustration.

There was a long silence as the two Harpers stared at each other, and Belgrade took a deep, shuddering breath. "I needed her to believe in me, needed her to believe that this is just a charade so that _I _can believe it's just a charade. I'm not like you, Darial. I can't play a role and spend all the time remembering it's a role. For me, when I do things like that, with every unsavoury action I take I have to wonder how much of it is acting and how much isn't; where the line between me and my role has been drawn."

Darial stared at him for a long moment, then leaned forwards and shovelled a forkful of fish into her mouth. There was a second of silence as she chewed and swallowed, Belgrade still calming himself down, rubbing his eyes wearily, before the bard spoke once more.

"Let's just get this finished, okay?" she replied quietly, reaching out to place a hand on his forearm, then thinking the better of it. "Then you can explain to Jaheira, make amends. She's irritated, you're stressed, and it's just a bad time. Wait for the dust to settle; get this over and done with, then make amends."

Belgrade sighed, smiling a sad and fairly insincere smile at her. "The things we do for duty, hmm?"


	15. Chapter 15: Champions

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Chapter 15: Champions

The regular patrons of the Copper Coronet's less legal activities were very much connoisseurs of the pit fighting business. They knew which fighters to place bets on, and how much; could calculate the suitable odds in their heads and generally were quite able to evaluate the best way of winning a lot of money on the gladiators. They weren't used to surprises – they liked their favourites, and they liked things to be comfortable.

Which is why the arrival of Baron Geoffrey Ployer's latest champion was met with mixed reactions. Some cursed the Rashemani for losing them money, so sulked and had little more to do with the Copper Coronet's pit fighting. But the majority tagged on to him, accepted the diminutive gladiator as their new champion, and thus the crowd's response to him was overwhelming in the final fight with the top gladiator of another independent slaver – Lord Mayberry, who had been pushed aside by Skorrid in favour of Ployer for the pit fighting contract, and was fairly desperate to have his own gladiator win.

Aergoth Xanthus stood in the middle of the ring of the Coronet, his bastard sword in one hand as he moved it almost lazily through a few swings around his body, trying to get his tired muscles to get a feel for the weight of the blade before the fight. He ached all over from the constant training as Ployer pushed him to be able to win this final fight, but knew that even if he was victorious now there was no guarantee of rest any time in the near future. Unless his Harper friends delivered on their promise.

He smiled thinly as he considered the pair that had given him this idea of freedom, a rather elusive concept at the best of times. They seemed fairly idealistic, and he wasn't going to place all faith in them… but he could hope. They seemed to know what they were doing.

Yet at the back of his mind, Xanthus somehow _knew _that they would fail. That they could not free him.

The metal grate on the far side of the arena opened up, and although his opponent was not inside, he could see a long shadow approaching the entrance, seeming hulking and huge until around the corner came… a well armoured dwarf.

Xanthus laughed, but it was a laugh born of nerves and an attempt to calm himself. He didn't underestimate dwarves. They could be the most dangerous foes on Faerûn if you gave them the chance, and in their fury they were quite hard to handle. They also liked to get up close, and for the Rashemani gladiator's fighting style, this was death. This gave him a double advantage if he could keep his distance… if.

"_Ladies and gentlemen_!" hollered a voice from the main stand to his left, in which stood Skorrid, the speaker, his young son Lehtinan, Baron Ployer and Lord Mayberry, the latter two with distinctly anxious expressions on their faces. "_The fight you've all been waiting for… presented to you by the one and only Copper Coronet… Baron Ployer's Aergoth Xanthus versus Lord Mayberry's Darrok Splithammer_!"

A roar went up from the crowd, and a few boos. Xanthus had heard of this Splithammer – a very psychotic dwarf with the traditional penchant for axes. He tightened his two-handed grip on the bastard sword. This was likely a fight where he'd need more than physical skills…

He was jerked out of his planning as the bell rang, loud and clear, above his head, and the dwarf – probably the only opponent Xanthus had ever fought who was _shorter _than he was – charged forwards. Into the fray.

* *

"Argh!" Xanthus screamed with pain as he writhed on the floor of his temporary cell in the Copper Coronet, clutching at his leg as Warner did his best to pin the small gladiator down and a cleric of Talos attempted to force a healing potion down his throat.

"Drink, damn it, man! And stop screaming," the cleric barked, grabbing Xanthus' nose and forcing the pit fighter to gulp on the light blue liquid. In the silence where the Rashemani was drinking and not screaming, his struggles stopped and Warner was eventually able to release him. The cleric pulled away the bottle as an ugly gash in Xanthus' leg healed itself slowly, and the two men strode out, leaving the gladiator panting on the floor.

Xanthus sat up slowly, hurriedly ripping his bloodied trousers so as to see the wound better… and collapsed again with a sigh as he saw only pink, healthy flesh. The memory of the hard metal of the axe biting into his leg was vivid, and made him wince as the pain echoed in his head. He had been lucky.

"Where is he? He's alright? I have a lot of money invested in that boy, so help me Bhaal if that dwarven bastard has…" Xanthus lifted his head slowly as Ployer appeared in front of the cell, followed by his two investors, the baron wringing his hand nervously.

Xanthus did his best not to sneer at the Calimshite, completely unmoved by his concern as he sat up slowly. "I'm quite alive, thank you very much," he mumbled, clambering to his feet. "Well, just."

Ployer looked outraged as Darial, whose face only Xanthus could see in the gloom, hid a smirk. "How could this have happened? How! Next time, my boy, I'll have you wearing the finest armour I can…"

"If I'd been wearing the finest armour, your lordship, the gash in my leg might have been better but I'd certainly be _dead _and defeated instead of battered and victorious. Metal doesn't do much for a magic missile, you know," Xanthus reminded the Calimshite dryly, raising an eyebrow.

Ployer hesitated. "Ah, well, yes, I suppose." There was a pause. "Impressive fight, though. I thought it was over until you…" His voice trailed off and he gestured vaguely. "Zapped the dwarf. Very impressive. Perhaps I should get a mage in, get your magical skills a bit more finely tuned?"

Xanthus shrugged. "That could work. Every little bit helps, and the more advantages I have… right now, I deal in nothing but simple magic which any apprentice mage can handle. Yet I shall leave finding a wizard here in Athkatla… up to you."

Ployer smiled a wry and slightly oily smile. "You've done very well, my boy. No more fights for a week or so, I believe, but we'll be training you hard. But you've made me a very rich man today, boy. So much that I'm in your debt. Ask for a favour… any favour… and you shall have it. Within reason of course!"

__

A favour, hmm? Xanthus raised an eyebrow. _Freedom? Ha, very funny. A new sword? Clothes that aren't falling off?_

Before he could come up with a fairly frivolous request for something that would do nothing more than make his life moderately more comfortable for only a day, as Xanthus was quite aware of what Ployer meant by 'within reason' – anything that didn't cost more than ten gold, Warner appeared from the shadows of the cells area.

"Mister Skorrid would like a word with you, milord," the half-orc intoned gravely, nodding back towards the entrance, where the bright light seemed almost blinding in contrast with the gloom of where they stood.

"Ah! Excellent, excellent…" Ployer turned to go, giving Xanthus a brief sideways glance. "Just think about the request, my friend. Anything you desire," he promised vaguely before following his manservant down the corridor, leaving only a handful of the other jail attendants and his two investors behind.

Darial surreptitiously stepped up to the bars of the cell. "Nice fight. Ask for a courtesan," she hissed, hardly making eye contact and looking perfectly inconspicuous to any passing employees of Ployer.

"What?"

"Just do it," the bard insisted, nodding firmly. "And make it tonight. Ployer can't refuse that."

Xanthus frowned incredulously, then did his best to mask his expression as a jailer passed. They waited for a moment in silence. "What do I do from there?"

"She'll tell you," Darial replied casually.

"_She'll _–"

"Ah, we should probably get going," Belgrade intervened, stiffly putting an arm around Darial's shoulder and pulling her away until she elbowed him discreetly in the ribs and jerked him back into the world of convincing acting. "There's… much to do." He smiled an impressively oily smile at Xanthus as they retreated. "Remember… just ask. The man will do anything for you. You're his champion."


	16. Chapter 16: Skin Deep

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Chapter 16: Skin Deep

"I hate this," Jaheira growled as she attempted to clamber up the stairs to the back rooms of the Copper Coronet, an exceedingly difficult manoeuvre in the clothes she was wearing, and whilst Khalid was hovering around to catch her in case she fell, she wasn't too comfortable about him being _that _close when so much of her was on display. "Why did _I _have to do it?"

"I c-couldn't exactly d-do it, c-could I?" Khalid pointed out, trying to be ready to maintain the druid's balance if needed whilst not allowing his eyes to linger anywhere Jaheira wouldn't appreciate them resting. 

"Yes, but as a damned _courtesan_? What do Gorion and Darial think they're playing at?" she hissed as they reached the top of the stairs, and she made a valiant effort to tug the flimsy clothing around her so it gave the imagination a bit more of a workout.

"J-just play along. And t-try to stay in character; we d-don't want t-to attract too m-much unwanted attention," he replied, pushing the door open and leading the way in to the back rooms, which all looked fairly innocent enough save the collection of scantily-clad ladies lingering by most of the doorways, a handful of less virtuous characters lurking about them.

The two Harpers did their best to not look too taken aback by the view, and strode down to the end of the corridor – as well as Jaheira _could _stride, that is, with the skirt and the shoes – where a woman who was, as Belgrade had put it when they were discussing the plan, 'built like a galleon' waited authoritatively.

Khalid pasted a smile onto his face as they approached. "You would b-be M-Madame Nimes?" he asked as politely as possible, ignoring the waves of the other courtesans lurking around.

The woman raised an eyebrow and looked him up and down, smirking a little as the young half-elf turned bright red. "Aye, that would be me. You'd be the two that blonde-haired noble talked about?" He nodded slowly. "Aye, you would be. Fine looking man, that one was… couldn't quite say no…"

As Madame Nimes mumbled for a few seconds about how delectable Belgrade apparently was, Khalid glanced back at Jaheira, and fortunately managed to stifle a grin at the druid's expression. Whilst her automatic response was to be angry and vaguely possessive, the brain kicked in and she managed to appear fairly impassive, but the moment of conflict was vaguely amusing.

"So you will help us?" Jaheira prompted, glaring a little.

Madame Nimes finally acknowledged the druid's existence and threw her an evaluating glance, one which was semi-approving. "Aye, of course. Got the money, shall do as you ask. When the baron's men come along, I'll push you in their direction. Not a hardship."

Jaheira sagged with relief as Khalid turned to her. "Then I s-suppose you j-just have to survive about an h-hour here until P-Ployer's men t-turn up… fending off any l-low life that m-makes an advance. I should g-get g-going myself," he told her, before heading off down the corridor out the way they'd come.

Jaheira frowned after him. "Fending off any low life…?" she mumbled, then paused as she spotted someone approaching her out of the corner of her eye. She shifted a little to give the short, fairly bloated man an evil glare. "Don't even think about it," she snapped, enhancing the glare until he hurried off towards a slightly more willing courtesan. The druid sighed. It was going to be a long night.

* *

Xanthus collapsed onto the hard bed with a sigh of vague delight, luxurious as this low-grade servants' room was in comparison to his cell. There was… a mattress! And not a sign of any rats anywhere. A shame he'd only be able to enjoy this room for a few minutes, though he supposed he _was _supposed to be enjoying it immensely.

A light tap at the door shifted him into action, and he sat up briskly, unnecessarily taut in preparation of any possible dangers that could suddenly appear. He shook his head and cleared his throat. "Yes?"

The door swung open, and in strode a fairly bulky guard of Ployer's, followed by a lithe woman with delicately pointed ears dressed in what Xanthus vaguely recognised as a courtesan's attire.

The guard raised an eyebrow obtusely as he looked at the Rashemani gladiator. "Here's your fun. You got ten minutes," he barked shortly, gesturing vaguely at the half-elf as he shrugged.

As he turned to go, the courtesan raised a hand briefly. "One thing, though…" The guard paused, and looked inquisitively at her… in time to receive a fist smashing him in the nose from a courtesan who was distinctly stronger and more violent than he had exactly anticipated.

The guard staggered back, crashing into the wall, and was about to struggle to regain his balance when Xanthus leapt upon him, cracking the guard's skull against the wall and allowing him to slide limply to the floor, unconscious.

Xanthus glanced briefly at the courtesan, looking pleasantly surprised. "They said that a courtesan would be telling me what to do when she arrived. I had not expected anything quite this… active. I am Aergoth Xanthus."

The courtesan nodded. "I know who you are. You may call me Jaheira." The half-elf shuffled about the guard's person, pulling out a short sword, which she passed over to Xanthus, and a smaller dagger on the belt which she used to cut a slit on the side of her dress, allowing her distinctly freer movement.

She straightened up and glanced at the gladiator. "There were very few guards from here to the main entrance. I suppose they didn't exactly expect a courtesan to attack them." Jaheira smiled wryly. "If we can get to the servant's entrance near the kitchen, which is only around the corner from here, there are a group of Harpers we can let in, and they'll take over from there. Do you know where Ployer is."

Xanthus nodded, looking a little stunned from Jaheira's sudden arrival, action, and spouting of information. "Down in the cells. He's with Skorrid and Warner – they're looking at some of the fighters, trying to come up with something interesting when the Copper Coronet's fights start next week. They should be at it most of the night – they usually are."

Jaheira nodded curtly. "Good… it's not too far from the kitchen to the back staircase to the cells… Fewer guards to deal with. Once we get to Ployer, we can bring in the Athkatlan guards, and it'll all be over from there."

The gladiator raised a hand slowly. "One step at a time. First, we get your friends inside, and let them take care of it. There are only two of us, and if we attract attention, it will all be over very quickly. You seem a very competent woman, and I can handle myself in a fight, but Ployer has many guards – has to, to keep his slaves in line. We can't fight _all _of them."

She nodded again. "I know. Which is why we must be careful." She paused, and glanced at him briefly. "I assume you have some spells prepared? A magic missile could be a good, quick way to take down an individual guard if the need arises."

Xanthus shrugged as he inspected the sword she had given him. "I'm prepared. You may think all gladiators just mess around fighting slowly for the display, I _do _know the quickest way to kill somebody." He paused and grimaced as he said that, but passed no comment. "Anyway, we should get going, before someone starts to wonder where _he _is," he continued, nodding at the unconscious guard. He paused. "How do you _know _where the kitchen is, and everything?"

"Hmm? Oh, took a look at the plans to Ployer's house," Jaheira replied, peeking cautiously out of the door to ensure that no guards were in sight. "It's clear. Let's go," she finished, leading the way out.

The two of them moved as silently down the corridor as possible, heading for the kitchen. This late in the evening, most of the guards were approaching the ends of their shifts, and so weren't particularly inclined to investigate an odd noise, or an erratic shadow down the end of the corridor. After all, the next guy could take care of it. So the gladiator and the Harper reached the kitchen without incident… nearly.

Xanthus almost ran into Jaheira's back as the druid skidded to a halt before a corner, just around which was the door that led to the kitchen. The Rashemani swore in his native tongue under his breath, and threw her a slightly exasperated glance. "What?"

Jaheira glared at him. "There's a guard blocking our path. He's standing right in front of the door to the kitchen."

Xanthus paused, peeking around the corner briefly. Indeed, there was a guard lounged against the wall next to the kitchen door, and it didn't look as if he was going to kindly walk off for no apparent reason either. He swore again, then glanced at Jaheira. "Can you distract him?"

"Me? What? How?"

The gladiator rolled his eyes. "A scantily clad woman walks up to him, he's going to be distracted. Can you just get him so he has his back to me? I can zap him there. But I don't think he's going to kindly let me walk around the corner and do a bit of chanting until I throw a magic missile at him."

Jaheira glared at him, her mind obviously working in a hunt for a suitable alternative, but coming up blank. She swore at him, grimacing, then nodded slowly. "Very well. But tell _nobody_ of this," she growled, shifting her clothes so they were a little more revealing once again, then swaggered around the corner.

The fairly Neanderthal-like guard spotted some movement out of the corner of his eye, and perked up immediately, lifting his halberd swiftly yet a little clumsily. "Halt! Who… ooh…" The attentive expression increased tenfold, even though his eyes glazed over a touch as he saw the scantily-clad half-elf approaching him with a very willing expression on her face.

Jaheira tried not to grit her teeth as she sauntered up to the guard, looking slightly hopeful and lost. "Could you perhaps help me?" she asked lightly, trying to drive any semblance of intelligence out of her voice as she spoke. "I was supposed to come here… for the gladiator… but I appear to have become lost…"

The guard smiled brightly, but after a few seconds a slightly suspicious expression crossed his face. "Weren't you supposed to be escorted to the chambers?" he asked dubiously, raising a bushy eyebrow.

Jaheira managed not to swear as she traced a hand lightly along the guard's upper arm. "Yes, but… these things… so easy to avoid," she declared loftily, slowly circling the guard, who did his best to keep track of her, until he was facing the kitchen door. Jaheira finally came to a halt and looked straight on. "It must be a very tiresome job, this," she murmured, silently willing Xanthus to move.

The guard, who was visibly torn between two forms of action, shifted uncomfortably. "Well… urk…"

Although such a monosyllabic answer as 'urk' was not too unexpected, coming from someone of his limited brain capacity, it was, in all fairness, not entirely his fault as pair of small red glowing arcane spheres thudded into his back and he collapsed to the floor.

Xanthus meandered forwards, pulling his sword back out from where he'd shoved it in his belt, and looked inquisitively at the druid. "Nice performance," he commented quietly, smirking a little in a distinctly uncharacteristic way, the adrenaline of this escape summoning up a slightly euphoric feeling he was quite unused to.

Jaheira nodded as she checked to see if the guard was still alive. He was breathing irregularly, but he was breathing. She too could feel her heart racing as she straightened up, the rush of action from this first assignment stimulating her in a mixture of nervousness and delight. "Shut up," she mumbled to the gladiator, shaking her head, then glanced sideways. "Well… let us continue, and pass the torch of this quest on to someone else," the druid continued, nodding at the door to the kitchen.

"Aye… I'm following," Xanthus replied casually as they stepped inside.


	17. Chapter 17: The Cavalry

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Chapter 17: The Cavalry

"You t-took your t-time," Khalid murmured as he and four other armed, armoured and cloaked figures stepped into the kitchen, barely giving the unconscious servants on the floor a cursory glance.

Jaheira shut the door behind them firmly whilst fixing the half-elven warrior with a slightly evil glare. "There were… things to take care of," she insisted, gratefully accepting the scimitar one of the four armed Harpers passed her, though she would have killed for one of their cloaks right now.

Xanthus folded his arms across his chest, giving the five newcomers appraising glances. "If we'd been any faster, it would have been with all the guards in this house bearing down on us." He looked at the four mysterious cloaked Harpers, then decided to settle on the nervous Khalid to direct questions at – for, despite his manner, he was clearly in charge. "What is the plan from here?"

"We m-make our way t-to the c-cellars and f-find P-Ployer. Once we h-have him incapacitated, we're safe and c-can c-call for the Athkatlan g-guards." Khalid gave Jaheira a brief, sideways glance. "B-Belgrade and D-Darial will be dragging them over h-here, once Gorion m-manages to c-convince them that they n-need to act."

"Let us stop wasting time," came the melodious voice of one of the cloaked figures, who looked distinctly elven. "The more we sit around, the more likely they are to notice that there are unconscious guards and missing gladiators."

Khalid gave the other Harper a brief, mildly irked look before nodding firmly. "Y-yes. Quite." He looked at Jaheira and Xanthus. "Y-you memorised the l-layout of this h-house – show us t-to the c-cellars. We c-can handle it f-from there – you can g-get out."

Xanthus shook his head. "If she wants to go, then she can, but I'm going with you. There are people down there who need to be freed, and people down there who need to pay for what they've done."

Jaheira smiled tightly. "I'm going to make _somebody _pay for making me go through with this ridiculous plan. Better Ployer than you, don't you think?" she asked, all disconcerting sweetness and light.

Khalid shifted a little. "Ah, yes. Q-quite. Onwards, then."

Movement this time through the Ployer mansion was distinctly speedier. A guard suddenly come across could be silenced swiftly with a shot from the bow of the elven warrior, or with the throwing knife of the halfling rogue. With him, Khalid had brought a group of experienced Harpers who, even though they deferred to his leadership, for Gorion had put him in charge, knew exactly what they were doing, and did it well.

The guards standing at the top of the doors to the stairway to the cellar and the cells were speedily dispatched by the skilled Harpers, and they huddled around the door in a quick discussion of a plan of action.

Khalid looked at Xanthus. "Y-you know about this p-place, know about P-Ployer. What c-can we expect f-from down t-there?" he asked, frowning a little as he peered through the tiny crack in the door, slightly ajar and offering him little more than a vague view of the side of one of the cells. He could see the inmate, dressed in rags, pressed against the bars of the cell, watching something going on in the main area.

Xanthus thought a moment, chewing on his lower lip. "The evening practices. Ployer usually pits his fighters against each other in the training cell or in the arena. It's usually just Ployer, Warner his manservant, and about five or six guards. Today, though, Skorrid from the Copper Coronet will be there, but with the element of surprise, we can take them down quite easily."

Jaheira looked vaguely amused for a moment. "Charge in there, take them by surprise, and make sure we don't hit any slaves. Sound good?" the druid asked, gripping the hilt of her scimitar tightly and looking as if she wanted to split some skulls open.

Khalid frowned for a moment. "Well…"

Downstairs, Baron Ployer was quite happy with himself. His gladiators were shaping up to be fine fighters, he was raking in the money with this contract with Skorrid, and his prestige in the underworld was increasing. It seemed as if the only way was up.

Next to him, Warner shifted uncomfortably as he shifted his whip from his left hand to his right, watching the two hefty fighters they'd stuck in the training cell together as they sparred. "Xanthus should be back by now," the half-orc grunted.

Skorrid, on the other side of Ployer, laughed a fairly high-pitched and nasal laugh as he ran a hand over his bald head. "Lighten up, Warner. The boy's a gold-mine in himself; let him have a little bit of fun, hey, Geoffrey?" the rat-like owner of the Copper Coronet murmured cheerily.

"Yes, he deserves it," Ployer agreed, waving a hand vaguely to dismiss Warner's concerns. "If he knows that he wins excellent favours from me for doing well, it's nothing but an incentive to win fights, no?"

Warner mumbled something about death being quite enough of an incentive, but decided to keep that observation to himself as he stepped forward, growling threateningly at the two warriors and glaring at them until they continued sparring with the wooden swords.

Ployer ignored his manservant's discontent. The half-orc was often like that; it was simply a part of his heritage, and as such should simply be taken in stride. It was not anything to lose sleep over. He was in too good a mood for it to be disrupted by something that minor.

But his good mood _was _disrupted by the noise of the door to the cellar being thrown open heavily and unexpectedly. He turned around, ready to stare imperiously at whichever guard had dared to show his face this discourteously.

The expression turned into one of disbelieving horror as a cloaked figure landed at the bottom of the stairs, letting loose an arrow from his bow which flew through the air and lodged itself in the throat of one of his guards.

Before the others could react, the cloaked archer was suddenly joined by an armoured half-elf with a rather large sword, a slim human with a crossbow, a little cloaked halfling, an armoured woman with a mace… an angry-looking, scantily clad elven-looking woman gripping a scimitar rather forcefully… and a familiar pit-fighter who looked as if he had death on his mind.

Ployer screamed.

Khalid lunged forwards, his sword raised and ready to meet the first guard who stepped in his path, who raised his halberd falteringly, offering only a half-hearted and panicked resistance. The half-elf twisted to the side, the metal of the halberd only scraping his armour lightly, and brought his blade down just below the head of the polearm, on the wood. It wasn't enough to turn the weapon into little more than a stick, but it was enough to get the jumpy and obviously inexperienced guard to drop the weapon and go for his own sword instead, pulling it out jerkily and only just in time to block Khalid's slash at his mid-section.

Meanwhile, the Harper cleric and thief were bringing down another guard between them as their allies, the elven archer and the crossbow-wielding bard, hung back and rained arrows, crossbow bolts, and the occasional magic missile down upon the surprised guards of Ployer's.

One guard of Ployer's was a little more ready to cope with this intrusion, however, as his employee and Skorrid attempted to run – which wasn't easy when every slave in every cell was pelting anything they could get their hands on at them, mostly bowls of food or the occasional wooden sword.

Warner strode forwards, axe in one hand, whip in the other and lashed out, the leather of the whip wrapping itself around the neck of the halfling rogue, who fell with a gurgle, eyes bulging.

The half-orc let go of the whip, shifting his axe back into his right hand, and grinned toothily as a crossbow bolt deflected harmlessly off his helmet with nothing more than the ring of metal upon metal. Behind him, Khalid dispatched the guard he had been fighting, and rose to bring his sword down on the half-orc's unprotected back.

Until he was smashed in the face with the flat of Warner's axe and sent sprawling to the floor as the half-orc whirled around, adjusting the grip on his weapon so that he would strike this time with sharp blade, not dull blunt metal and raising his hand for the final blow.

This would have been a fairly swift death if it wasn't for the arrival of a small blur crashing into Warner's bulk and knocking the half-orc to one side, unbalancing him and presenting him with a slightly more important target as Aergoth Xanthus arrived, sword upraised and the light of battle in his eyes.

Behind them, Khalid could feel the blood flowing from his nose, and was still reeling, his vision having exploded before his eyes with the pain as he attempted to clamber to his feet. He managed to jerkily block the blow of one of the remaining guards, but it was a slow, cumbersome movement, and he was still barely aware of a figure arriving, kicking the guard in the knee, then slashing him across the chest with their scimitar.

Khalid sank back down to his knees, still blinded and dazed, until he felt delicate hands touch either side of his face, and he heard low, mystical-sounding words murmured in a feminine voice. Before he could attempt to ponder this development, there was a flash of blue light and the pain subsided distinctly, his vision clearing to show the slightly concerned yet mostly irritated face of Jaheira as she yanked him to his feet.

"Forget the guards," the druid said, nodding back to where the three remaining employees of Ployer were now in pitched combat with the three remaining Harpers, the elf having traded his bow for a sword, the bard his crossbow for an axe, and the cleric joining in the fray. It looked like it would be a short fight for the experienced Harpers.

"There's still Ployer and Skorrid," Jaheira continued, nodding to where the two pit-masters were running down the rows of cells, still being pelted with anything the slaves could get their hands on.

Xanthus, meanwhile, ducked a mid-level slash from Warner's axe which would have been too low for the usual bulky opponent to which the half-orc was accustomed to avoid, before retaliating with a swing from his short sword, a weapon which was distinctly smaller than the blades the gladiator was used to.

The metal deflected off Warner's heavy breastplate, proving the low quality of the sword, and Xanthus felt the shock run up his arm as the blade vibrated roughly in his grip. Warner laughed and swung his axe again, and Xanthus was still barely able to side-step it in time.

The gladiator paused for a moment, sword raised in a defensive position, as he attempted to consider his situation. _The usual fight. The hulking mass of an opponent unused to fighting someone of your side. But this is Warner. You may know all of his tricks, but he knows all _your_ tricks. He _gave _you a few of your tricks._

But that can be used as an advantage. You know how he's going to react to your tricks. So it's time to make up some new ones.

Xanthus knew all he had to do was survive. Once the Harpers had taken down the guards, they would and could band together for the formidable force of a half-orc, and take him down en masse. The gladiator just needed to keep him occupied long enough to stop him from turning on the Harpers. And needed to survive.

He lashed out with his foot, kicking Warner in the knee and hoping to break his leg, but the knee merely locked and the half-orc gave a grunt in pain as he staggered for a moment. This was enough of a distraction for Xanthus to make use of.

He stepped back, weaving his hands through complicated gestures as he murmured under his breath, hoping for a Burning Hands spell which would definitely give him the advantage in the fight.

Warner, however, was not going to let him do that, as his left fist swung out and caught Xanthus in the face, sending him flying back, disrupting the spell casting. He chuckled as the gladiator flew into the wall and slid to the ground, then shifted his grip on the axe and strode forwards menacingly.

Xanthus panted as he landed, guessing that at least one rib was broken, for every breath sent agony through him. But Warner had acted exactly as he'd expected. This wasn't necessarily a good thing, because it did mean he'd have to think quickly before his skull was split in two.

He acted on instinct, and threw his sword at the half-orc. Fortunately, the helmet he wore was one of the open-faced ones, and so a hilt smashing into his face definitely knocked Warner off balance.

What also knocked him off balance was Xanthus once again launching himself at the half-orc, this time wielding the dagger he and Jaheira had taken from the first guard. The two of them fell to the ground heavily, and Xanthus knew that Warner's extra weight gave him the definite advantage. But the gladiator was in perfect control of his senses as he gripped the half-orc by the chinks in the armour and drove the dagger again and again in any gap he could find as they rolled over and over, Xanthus too close for Warner to use his axe.

But all too soon, Xanthus felt an iron-strong grip latch itself to him as Warner seized him, holding tight, seeming as if he was going to squeeze the very life out of the gladiator. But even as he felt another rib crack, he continued to drive the dagger again and again into the half-orc's flesh.

Down the corridor of the cells, Ployer slipped in a pool of the slop he fed to his slaves as the bowl which had previously held it struck Skorrid on the forehead, and they both fell to the ground unceremoniously. Behind them, two half-elven Harpers hurtled in pursuit, and as the two slavers rolled over to stand up again, they found blades pointed at their throats threateningly.

"Don't," Khalid growled uncharacteristically threateningly, "move. At all."

"Just give us an excuse to run you through, and we will do," Jaheira agreed, then poked Skorrid a little harder in the neck with the edge of her scimitar as he noticed that, even when she could kill him in an instant, he still took time out to ogle her.

"W-what do you want?" Ployer stammered, backing off a little from Khalid's blade. "Money? We can give you money! I'm an important person! I have influence, I have ties! You name it! My investors will be here to give you anything you want within seconds!"

Jaheira and Khalid exchange knowing, cheerful glances. "Actually," Khalid replied lightly, "we're not interested in your money. And yes, your investors _will _be here within seconds, but I think it will be with the Athkatlan guard to take you to jail."

Ployer's expression darkened with fury as he shifted to stand, only the threatening point of Khalid's sword keeping him in place quickly. "The treacherous _scum_!" he barked angrily. "Those lying, deceiving, good-for-nothing… I was giving them _everything_! And this is how they repay me? Is _this _fair?"

"No," Jaheira replied, glancing over her shoulder to see the elven warrior and human bard attempt to drag the prone form of Warner off a barely conscious Xanthus was the cleric knelt over the halfling rogue, murmuring spells to attempt to being him back – whether he was dead or just passed out was unknown. She glanced back at the two slavers before them. "It's justice."

* *

Belgrade's eyes scanned the cellars, where hordes of Athkatlan guards shifted around, releasing slaves and generally poking around for evidence against Ployer – as if the cellar itself wasn't enough evidence. He had arrived fifteen minutes earlier with Darial and the guards themselves to find some very contained slavers and some rather overjoyed slaves. All in all, a very successful mission – although Ployer had yet to meet justice in the courts, the slaves were free, and the Harpers had done almost everything they could here.

To his left stood Khalid and the Captain of the Athkatlan Watch, next to where a pair of guards gripped Ployer and Skorrid. The half-elf seemed to be explaining perfectly confidently and assertively to the captain, and from the other man's expression, Khalid was telling him a thing or two as well. Belgrade smiled wryly. There was a lad who had come into his own from this mission. Gorion had been quite right after all.

The rogue glanced around to where Darial and the rest of the Harpers sat, drinking from flasks, along with a recently-mended Aergoth Xanthus, whose expression of utter delight spoke of the general feeling of all the freed slaves and warmed Belgrade's heart as it drove home just what they had done – not _against _Ployer, but _for _these people.

But these were not the people he was looking for. His work here was done, and now it was time to pick up a few pieces and set certain things right – make amends for his own stupidity, as it were.

He finally spotted Jaheira, standing a little to one side by one of the empty slaves, alone, watching the goings-on with a fairly contemplative air. He smirked a little as he took in what she was wearing, not envying Khalid for the duty of directing the druid to become a courtesan, then swallowed his nerves and headed over towards her. "Hello…"

Jerked out of her reverie, Jaheira hadn't quite had the chance to prepare a scathing retort or even a glare, and she just looked at him blankly for a moment until she managed a half-hearted glower. "Ah. So you're here."

Belgrade sighed, having expected this sort of thing. "Look, I…" He paused, looking at her for a moment, then pulled the heavy, warm cloak which was a part of his nobleman's disguise off and passed it to her. "Here, take this, and save yourself the stares of the guards," he murmured, glaring at any passing members of the Athkatlan Watch who dared let their eyes linger for a moment.

Despite herself, Jaheira accepted the cloak gratefully and wrapped it around herself with a shiver. She fixed Belgrade with an appraising look. "Thank you," she mumbled at last, distinctly happier now she was warmer and covered up. The druid raised an eyebrow quizzically, but not unkindly. "So let's talk?"


	18. Epilogue: Aftermath

__

Yes! Finished! At last! A sequel **is** _on the cards at some point, but it's rather on hold until other projects get dealt with. Next, I intend to give Tide of Destiny a push forwards for a bit, until I'm inevitably distracted by something else. Some other project, be it the BG2 paladin Nalia romance, the BG1 bard Imoen romance, something **completely** different but equally crazy and distracting. No, for now, I intend to tackle the Underdark, Tide-style! Roll on the love dodecahedrons!_

****

Epilogue: Aftermath
    
    "I don't believe it!" Jaheira snapped as she and her five companions settled around one of the tables towards the back of the Sea's Bounty in Athkatla. It was a month later, and the adventurous Harpers were already frustrated by the limitations placed on them by the Amnish legal system – they needed to stay in Athkatla for as long as was necessary to bring Ployer's court case to a conclusion. And now that it was, nobody was too satisfied with the outcome.

"The man should have been swinging on the end of a noose," Xanthus agreed grumpily. He too had been required to remain in Athkatla for Ployer's judgement, eager as he was to start his new life.

"N-now, let's not be t-too hasty," Khalid asserted, taking a grateful gulp of his ale, watered down as it always was in the Sea's Bounty. "We h-have to b-be benevolent, and the c-courts have r-ruled. There is n-nothing wrong w-with a little m-mercy on occasion."

Darial snorted. "Tell that to the slaves who suffered under him for years. I don't think it's too much of a leap to assume that most of them would have wanted him to be executed," she muttered bitterly.

"Yes, but if you were to ask for their opinion, they would probably also want Ployer to be tortured within an inch of his life," Belgrade interjected from where he sat across the table, his arm across Jaheira's shoulder. "This is why you don't let victims decide the fate here, because they are always going to be biased, and thus the judgement is unlikely to be fair."

Jaheira shifted to look at him curiously. "What's unfair about allowing those who are wronged to be in charge of setting things right? When someone takes something from someone else – money, freedom, their life – they upset the balance. The only way to redress the balance is to allow the victim to retaliate in kind, because that evens things out."

"Not necessarily. Belgrade's right – their emotions will cloud their judgement," the final figure at the table insisted, and Gorion leaned forwards slightly, sipping his glass of wine. "If someone strikes your child, you will be angry. If the law means that you have to retaliate in kind, your emotion may affect your judgement. Where they gave your child a light slap, you'll punch them in the jaw, and when they thrashed the child, you'll kill them." The mage shrugged. "Obviously this isn't perfect, but you see my point. This is why judgement must come from the impartial."

Silence fell on the table, broken only by a discontented mutter from Darial. "I still say that Ployer should have hanged," she mumbled bitterly, taking a gulp from her ale and shaking her head.

Khalid considered this for a moment. "It m-might have b-been better f-for us if h-he d-did, but I think, this w-way, it's worse f-for him as well." He shrugged as the others looked at him. "P-Ployer's a proud m-man. If h-he was executed, he'd b-be remembered b-by the underworld as the r-rich, s-successful s-slaver who g-got caught and d-died. N-now he'll f-fade into oblivion, and b-be n-nothing m-more than a p-poor man who w-was once s-somebody."

Belgrade smiled a pearly grin as he nodded enthusiastically. "Death would be getting off lightly. Now he has to live the rest of his days in humiliation. He can no longer be a threat to anyone, and he'll be in abject poverty for the rest of his life," the rogue declared cheerily, raising his cup in an offer of a toast.

Gorion raised his glass also. "You have all done exceptionally well on this quest – especially our two newcomers," he congratulated them, nodding briefly at a smug Jaheira and a shyly pleased Khalid. "The slaving of Ployer has come to an end. But this is not yet over." They all looked curiously at him. "The _Seawolf _has once again departed from Athkatla, for unknown waters. People in the Copper Coronet say that Skorrid, now he's evaded the Athkatlan justice, is ready to get back in the game. He's been ordering shipments of slaves from Jorkaan Bates."

"That has to be stopped," Darial replied blandly, as if both guessing and agreeing with what Gorion was going to say next.

The mage nodded, smiling tightly. "It may be some time before the _Seawolf_ returns, however, but I have people working on where she's going, why, and so forth. Galvarey has been quite co-operative, and the Herald is giving me full power to act on this." Gorion looked around the table, his eyes eventually settling on Xanthus. "I would like you to stay with us for a time, Aergoth," he continued quietly. "Your extensive knowledge of the slaving underworld would be invaluable. It would only be for a short time."

Xanthus looked contemplative as he considered this for a moment. "Even if it would take years, my blade is yours if you will be using it to hunt and stop the slavers." He straightened up. "You have given me my freedom, and for that I am eternally grateful. Now there is the freedom of others to take into consideration."

Gorion nodded. "But not yet." He leaned back in his chair, giving them all considerate glances. "I don't know when this will start. We could have as long as six months before the _Seawolf_ returns and we could get down to business, and quite frankly, I'd be surprised if it's much less than that." He sat upright slowly, pulling a scroll from out of his robes. "So I can't have you sitting around here pointlessly – there are things to be done. If I need you, you know I'll find you. But in the meantime, there have been some rather odd goings-on up around Nashkel I'd like you to take a look at. Feel free to go along, Xanthus, if you so wish, because it never hurts to get to know the party you'll be working with in the future. It often helps us freelancers to get in the Harpers' good books as much as possible…"

Darial smiled slightly as Gorion sat casually, telling them what he wanted from them next, and felt a sense of both excitement and wellbeing rise within her. They had proven their worth against Ployer, and whilst she had the sensation that this jaunt north was merely Gorion's way of keeping them occupied, there were great things on the horizon. This party was competent, and was coming into its own with the arrival and development of Khalid and Jaheira, and with Xanthus' unofficial assistance, it seemed as if there was nothing they'd be unable to achieve. The quest for the _Seawolf_ and bringing down the slavers would have to wait, for now, but when they met it… they'd meet it head on.


End file.
